


All Is Lost Again (But I'm Not Giving In)

by coppersin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, trigger warning: dream of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppersin/pseuds/coppersin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nightmares aren't real. They can't possibly be real. But people keep dying and Stiles is genuinely losing his mind. And he can't seem to open his mouth and just tell someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I will not bow

**MARCH**

_The sun is too bright, and feeds the sharp ache in his head…_

Stiles opens his eyes, barely, closes them again and drifts back to sleep.

_He’s rubbing his finger with his thumb, again, only vaguely aware of the skin becoming red and raw…_

Stiles turns, burrows deeper under his blanket, curling in on himself.

_The sun is dim, barely illuminating the woods around him. A strange shiver courses through his body. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel ‘til his knuckles are white…_

Stiles wakes up, his hands aching, and realizes that he was actually clenching his hands. The pale moonlight is just enough to reveal the crescent marks his fingernails have dug into his skin. Weird. He’s never reacted to a dream like this before. _Talked_ , sure. Had entire conversation, in fact, because even sleep will not shut up Stiles Stilinski. But moving along with the story is something new. He shrugs it off and climbs out of bed to use the bathroom.

He’s already had six hours of sleep but he feels exhausted. When he’s back in bed and nuzzling his pillow, he tries to remember his dream but can’t. And there are no more dreams, that night or the next.

 - - -

_The sun is too bright, and glints off the metal at his side…_

Stiles mumbles, frowning slightly, but he doesn’t wake up.

_He’s rubbing his finger with his thumb, caressing the black line…_

The muscles in Stiles’ neck strain as he clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth, tries to shake his head.

_The woods are familiar now, but he feels nothing, thinks nothing. His grip is tight, his body trembles, but all he does is stare at the road ahead and try to focus, focus, focus…_

“I-- !” The rest of the sentence is lost, but the panic, and something bitter, is still swirling in his mind and on his tongue. Stiles sits up and takes a moment to take in his surroundings. He reassures himself that this is his room, his home -his eyes twitch- and that he is alone.

He is also unbelievably sore.

“What the hell?” he whines, rubbing his arms absently. He wasn’t tense when he fell asleep, he didn’t have a nightmare. Why did he feel like he had run a marathon?

The blanket is pooled in his lap and his exposed skin reacts to the cool air with shivers that are almost convulsive. And the thought of shivering leads to nausea.

“No,” he says firmly, to absolutely no one. “Nope. Not getting sick, I do not have the freaking time.” Instead of hiding under the warm covers and sleeping for ten hours like he wants, Stiles gets up and walks resolutely to the bathroom, drinks some water and downs a couple of vitamins from the bottle he barely remembers buying, like, a year ago, and walks back to bed, managing to trip twice on assorted books and clothes that litter his floor.

He does not dream.

 - - -

Stiles doesn’t dream for a week. Not that he notices. He’s too busy with school, random crappy weather, and a very cranky siren that nearly drowns them all.

There’s a lot to distract him.

When the siren is finally dead, they congregate at the train depot to check wounds. Everyone’s fine, so everyone leaves, mostly for Friday night dates, and soon it’s just Stiles and Derek. And there isn’t even the uncomfortable silence between them anymore, so that’s progress, and Stiles is hoping that maybe…

But Stiles smiles too brightly, practically demented, and opens his mouth to suggest a movie night, and Derek just raises an eyebrow and walks away.

So. That’s a no, then.

He drives home and binges on ice cream and Call of Duty and considers ways to expand his pathetic social life. He tries not to focus on his bad mood, but the thunder outside feels appropriate.

 - - -

_The sun is too bright…_

Stiles is shaking.

_He’s rubbing his finger…_

His lips are bloody from stressful bites.

_The sun is too bright, and his tattoo does not soothe him, and it was always going to end like this, really, this is okay, this is right, there is nothing and no one and soon his drive will end his journey is over thisisn’treal please oh god anything tobringthemback want need sofuckingtired…_

_Soon…. Rest soon. Will be done._

_Enough. It’s enough now._

He wakes with a start, wants to scream, really wants to scream, just get it out, but there’s nothing in him really. Just tired limbs and dry eyes.

“Stiles?” His dad is knocking at the door.

He clears his throat. “Yeah?”

The sheriff opens the door and sticks his head in. “I just got called in. I’ll probably be gone all day. See you at dinner?”

He thinks, _Sweet holy god, don’t leave me_. He nods and says, “Yeah. Stay safe.”

His dad smiles and closes the door.

Stiles isn’t sure what feels so off. He slept all night and should feel rested. He thought he was getting a cold or something last week but nothing came of it. He considers his weak muscles and clammy skin and wonders if maybe his mystery cold is back.

Sleep, he decides. Plenty of rest and water and probably-expired vitamins once he has the energy to move.

 - - -

Monday afternoon he’s at his locker when Scott appears, Allison-free, and really gets a look at him.

“You look awful.”

“Thanks man, love you too.”

Scott frowns and tilts his head, looking particularly puppy-like. “Are you sick?”

“Maybe? I have no idea. It comes and goes. I am freaking exhausted.”

“You look it.”

“Again, thanks.” He manages a ‘no worries’ grin, and calmly considers telling Scott something awful. It’s on the tip of his tongue, terrifying and unfair and nameless, but he has no idea what it is. He blinks, continues grinning, and heads toward Chemistry, basking in the increasingly rare attention of his best friend.

 - - -

The siren had sisters. They are all pissed.

Stiles blames himself. Not enough research, not enough proactive thinking. He figures the pack blames him, too, based on their cranky attitude. Everyone is wet and tired and furious, and even though they can heal and he can’t, his friends are too busy with their bruised egos to consider his _actual bruises_.

Stiles is brilliant. Stiles is resourceful. Stiles has saved their collective ass more than anyone else. Stiles has to remind himself of these facts, over and over, as he stomps out of the train depot and gets into his jeep, slamming the door shut with satisfaction.

As he drives off, he sees Derek in his rearview mirror, standing at the doorway with an unreadable expression.

 - - -

Stiles doesn’t dream, because Stiles doesn’t sleep. The police station is short-staffed, so his dad isn’t there to say anything as Stiles eats junk, plays video games, spends hours online, and half-heartedly pokes at the growing mess on his floor.

He ignores texts and phone calls from everyone but his dad. He keeps the doors and windows locked and all the curtains pulled, nearly puts a ‘Fuck Off’ sign in his bedroom window for certain door-impaired werewolves.

Stiles doesn’t sleep, doesn’t _want_ to sleep, sometimes fills with panic at the thought. Keeps thinking aversive thoughts.

Stiles thinks that it’s just school and stress and ungrateful friends, while a small voice reminds him that one day they won’t need him at all, and what the fuck then?

Stiles doesn’t sleep, and he’s beyond exhausted, but he’s also buzzing with nervous energy, wants to run for miles, almost changes into sweats to do so before the idea of leaving the house makes him run to the kitchen sink to vomit. Instead he vacuums the living room, takes a shower and jerks off twice, cleans the kitchen floor, and rearranges his DVD collection.

By Monday morning, he’s curled up on the couch, mentally calculating when he last took his Adderall and constantly losing his way because math is hard and thinking is hard and he has never been this fucking drained in his life.

His dad comes down for breakfast and seems startled and concerned at the sight of Stiles.

Stiles is prepared to list his symptoms, and the boring classes he can afford to miss, and something sharp and hard and very similar to something he once almost told Scott only that was ages ago wasn’t it? All he can manage is, “I’m sick.”

His dad agrees and tells him to stay home, and brings a water bottle and some aspirin before hurrying out the door.

Stiles considers the water, something cool to calm his stomach sounds nice, but it also reminds him of _wet_ and _slick_ and _warm_ and _sticking to his fingers_ and _the smell of_ … So, no, definitely no water. And he refuses to chew an aspirin.

Instead he climbs upstairs with weak muscles, gets into bed and rests his heavy head, and aims evil thoughts at the virus ravaging his system.

Christ, his head. It hadn’t hurt so much before. And the warm morning sunlight feels nice on his skin but it’s bright, it’s seeping through his eyelids and stabbing at his brain, and the sunlight isn’t warm anymore, it’s hot, too hot, burning the back of his neck where the light shouldn’t even reach and his head is splitting and the sun is so bright, it’s too bright…

_The sun is too bright. Makes it hard to focus. Makes it too easy to focus. Makes his eyes tighten and his head pound. He hasn’t slept in days and he’s lost too much blood. He knows that this should matter._

_Nothing matters, really._

_He reaches over for the gun on the passenger seat, touches the sun-baked metal just long enough to reassure himself that it’s still there, then settles his hand back on the steering wheel. The thick black line tattooed around his ring finger catches his eye, he stares for too long. Keeps staring. Has to keep reminding himself to focus on the road. He’s too close to mess it up now. It’s almost done._

_His hands clench from sharp, miserable thoughts, and, without thinking, his thumb begins to rub his finger, needing the comfort, needing the reminder, needing to touch something, anything, and this is the only thing that’s real._

_In a shallow grave in Oregon is Derek Hale, and on his ring finger is an identical tattoo._

_He’s cold, his body is trembling. His neck is hot, burnt from driving in the summer sun, but the torn flesh on his thighs and abdomen is still losing blood, draining his warmth. He just needs a little more time._

_The sun is dimming, it’s almost dusk, he’s barely aware of the time that has passed. His finger is red and raw and sore, and honestly it’s the only pain that he’s really aware of. He gazes at his tattoo, hardly notices the road, he knows this part by heart, struggles between memories of blood and guns and screams, and other, older memories, happier times in these woods._

_Home._

_He slumps in his seat, relieved and exhausted, stares out at the burnt ruins of the Hale house and stumbles out of his SUV._

_He’s home._

_The gun is in his hand, his fingers trembling from the weight, and his feet drag beneath him._

_He finds a familiar corner, and lets himself fall, sliding down the crumbling wall. He looks around and only sees what isn’t there, feels his lips tremble for the first time in years, wants to block out the memories but is desperate to keep them close._

_He’s so tired._

_He stares up at the night sky, tries to focus on stars but can’t. Listens instead to the sounds of the nighttime forest and finds a little comfort in it._

_He’s only 36 but his body is done, has used enough energy for a hundred years. And it’s okay._

_There’s no one else. There’s nothing else. And he will choose his own ending. And his ending is this._

_And it’s okay. It’s enough now. He’s done enough._

_Without thought or hesitation, staring at the stars, Stiles aims the gun at his head and pulls the trigger._

 - - -

Stiles is still sore. Everywhere. His muscles ache, his temples throb, his throat is weak from screaming. He remembers now, remembers every fragment of dream from the past few weeks. He remembers things he shouldn’t, things he hadn’t even dreamt, he remembers--

He grasps the toilet lid and retches.

 - - -

He stares at his phone. Dares himself to call someone. Tell his dad he’s sicker than he thought. Tell Scott what’s really happening. Tell Derek that there is a serious fucking problem. Tell someone, anyone, that he needs help, that he wants help.

And say what, exactly?

Because he’s trying, he truly is. To make sense of everything. To find an explanation. To at least assemble the information in his head into something coherent. Nothing works.

The dreams are… They’re something. There’s a word, on the tip of his tongue, like everything else is lately, one word that explains everything, but he can’t manage it. He doesn’t understand how painfully real the dreams had felt, how he can know details and facts as if they were memories.

 - - -

He doesn’t sleep much that night. His dad takes one look at him the next morning and calls the school for another sick day. Mostly Stiles naps, tries not to think about the things he now knows, and feels true gratitude every time he wakes up like a normal person.

Maybe…

Maybe if he ignores it. Catches up on his sleep, one nap at a time, gets back to school and lacrosse and the pack.

His brain is so scrambled at this point, maybe everything he knows will just float away.

There’s a knock on his door and he rouses himself enough to glance at his phone. 6:48pm.

Scott appears, Isaac right behind him, and they’re carrying pillows and pizza boxes. They have matching grins and Stiles tries to ignore the pang of jealousy at the time they’re spending together these days.

“Hey,” he says uncertainly as Scott unceremoniously dumps his stuff on the floor and claims a spot on the bed.  Isaac does the same.

“Feeling better?” Scott asks.

“A little. Probably be back at school on Thursday or Friday.” Isaac begins nudging Stiles’ feet around until he’s comfortable. “What-- Did we have plans? I feel like we have plans, and no one told me.” Isaac gives Scott an uncertain look, and Scott in turn looks a little guilty but keeps smiling.

“You’ve been quiet lately.” Stiles raises an eyebrow at that. Probably the first time that sentence has been said to him. “And, well, you ignored our calls so we weren’t sure…”

“Should we go?” Isaac asks quietly. Any closer and he would actually be laying _across_ Stiles’ feet. These guys make the dog jokes too easy, really.

Stiles opens his mouth, isn’t sure what he’ll even say, when he’s interrupted by the arrival of Lydia and ice cream. And judgment. “Your bedroom is a sty,” she announces as she walks in. She flops her pillow on the bed and shoos Scott closer to Stiles. “No way am I sleeping on that floor.”

“You’re staying?” They’re having a mass co-ed sleepover on a school night, complete with junk food, and his dad is downstairs not saying a word. Stiles must look worse than he thought.

An hour later, he’s crammed onto his bed with Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Boyd and Erica, wondering how the hell they’re all going to sleep like this and not really caring because it’s so comfortable and warm and safe. Everyone’s watching some crappy action movie on Netflix and Stiles is blissfully unaware of anything other than the people surrounding him.

Feeling brave, he pulls his phone out and texts Derek. _Next time, you can pick the movie._

He isn’t expecting a response, really, because Derek and communication don’t get along, but he gets a reply almost immediately. _Just go to sleep. You look like hell_. Startled, Stiles eyes the window with suspicion and doesn’t hid his grin.

Late that night, when everyone is indeed crammed onto his bed and most of them are snoring, Scott pokes Stiles to see if he’s awake.

“Well I am now.”

“Sorry.” Scott eyes him uncertainly, and Stiles wants to squirm under the scrutiny. Seriously, he had been sleeping. Minus terrible dreams. He did not need concerned looks right now.

“I’m okay,” he reassures, his eyes already closing.

“Are you?” Stiles realizes the room is a little quieter, and he wonders how many werewolf ears are aimed at them. “You don’t seem sick. You just seem tired. And sad.”

Stiles sighs, awful images reappearing in his mind, and squeezes his eyes shut to block them out. “I really am fine.” It isn’t working, in fact the memories are getting _more_ graphic. Perfect. “I was feeling left out,” he admits, just to say something honest. “But I’m over it.” He forces a grin. “And tonight helped. A lot. Really.”

Scott’s smile is bright and relieved. He squirms a little to get comfortable and starts to fall asleep. “You can talk to me,” he offers sleepily, almost as an afterthought.

I really can’t, Stiles almost says. I can’t seem to say it, and even if I could…

I know things now.

I know about a poison that drives werewolves insane. I know how that madness will spread.

I know what we would do to protect each other, and to protect others from ourselves.

I know what your face is like when you die, and what your last words will be.

I know because I’m the one that kills you all.


	2. I will not break

**APRIL**

Things are getting better. Not the memories, of course, those are still playing in his head 24/7 like a horror movie. But pretending that he’s okay, eating and sleeping and homework and pack meetings, he’s definitely getting better at faking those. And people make it easy for him: his dad is too busy with work to notice that something’s wrong, Scott is too busy pining for Allison to notice how he looks, and Derek doesn’t need to be busy to not notice him.

And he hasn’t had a nightmare in weeks. Doesn’t dream much at all, actually, but his few dreams are normal weird Stiles dreams and nothing of the blood-drenched variety.

Stiles tells himself that things are looking up.

\- - -

The memories are starting to settle at the bottom of his brain like sediment. Still there, always there, but not as demanding as before. He supposes he’s acclimating to life as a crazy person. Seems natural.

There are moments, of course, and what sucks is that they’re unexpected. His glass of orange juice, the smell of chalk dust, a certain shade of green. Details that mean nothing one day, and are giving him PTSD-like flashbacks the next. No one seems to notice how he tenses up, and honestly, his self-esteem does not need anymore hits, thank you.

He tries to soothe himself with happy thoughts, he fumbles around in lousy memories for the rare good moment, and the result is almost always Derek.

And Stiles is fine with that, actually, because he has long since accepted his ridiculous crush on the grumpy Alpha. And his brain may be creating the end of the world, but it’s also telling him what Derek’s lips feel like, how Derek’s hands feel on Stiles’ hips, showing him the soft smiles that are for Stiles, only Stiles, always Stiles.

Their real interactions are limited and unsatisfying, so he’ll take what he can get.

And if his day gets really bad, he can always rub his ring finger.

\- - -

The idea of using dreams to understand the people around him is absurd. Stiles knows this. Knows he should tuck the fictional knowledge away, shun it, or he’ll never snap out of this.

Please, _please_ , let him snap out of this soon. He’s too young to be insane.

But the information from his memories is startlingly accurate, and he figures that he’s been more observant than he realized.

When Erica has a terrible day, won’t let anyone near her, Stiles walks up to her without hesitation and places a hand at the small of her back and rubs gently. And the tension flows out of her.

Stiles thinks of how good it feels to take care of the ones he loves.

\- - -

Derek gets attacked, again, and nearly dies in the jeep, _again_ , and leaves his leather jacket behind when they go to Deaton for help. Deaton, who eyes Stiles a couple of times but says nothing. Which is normal - Deaton never seems to say what’s on his mind.

When Stiles drives out to the Hale house the next day to return the jacket, Peter is the only one around.

Peter gets a whiff of Stiles’ hesitation and smirks, and Stiles just rolls his eyes, because yes, he’s nervous, okay? Peter hurt Lydia, Peter tried to turn Stiles, Peter has betrayed his own family, _Peter won’t stay dead_. Nerves are allowed.

But in his dreams Stiles has seen how Peter could mellow out, could actually be useful and earnest when necessary, could someday belong, so today isn’t as awkward as other days.

Stiles steps forward deliberately and tosses the coat to Peter, who catches it with raised eyebrows. “Derek forgot this. Give it to him?”

Peter grins. “He should be back soon. You could wait.”

“What? No. I’m not-- It’s just a jacket.” Derek’s jacket. It _would_ be nice to see him today. “I’m sure you can be trusted.”

And Peter’s back to smirking. Are limited facial expressions hereditary? “That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Stilinski. Why, just yesterday--”

“Stop it,” Stiles snaps. “Honestly, I don’t have the energy. And you haven’t done anything creepy in, like, weeks, so maybe it’s time to stop the swagger, okay?”

Peter’s eyes are suddenly keen. “How are you sleeping, Stiles?” He’s looking up and down, taking in details that Stiles has been so careful to hide. Stiles clenches his keys tight enough to hurt, just to distract himself. _Don’t think about it._

“I have finals in a few weeks.” Which is true. Crap. How is time going by so fast? “I’ll have time to sleep after.”

Peter nods, says nothing.

Stiles wants to fill the silence, wants to speak, thinks of a time when he and Peter are friends, ohwowweird don’t, don’tthinkaboutit…

Focus.

“You have some books bound in green leather,” Stiles mumbles, and the sharp look Peter gives him snaps him back to reality. Crap. Seriously, _focus_. “I, um, saw them. On a shelf? The last time I was here. Anything good?” Anything passed down in your family, possibly, ‘cause in my dreams they are and you treasure those books like nothing else.

“Not really,” Peter shrugs. “I found them at the used bookstore in town. Collection of poetry. Pretentious, just like me.” He grins, and it’s a little more honest this time.

“You’re not completely evil,” Stiles blurts out. The hell? “I mean…” What? What could you possibly mean? Peter is clearly wondering the same. Stiles sighs. Can’t say anything else, but a half-formed insult? Sure, no problem there. He sorts through his thoughts, wonders where he was going with that, remembers that all roads lead to Derek. “Derek.”

“You have a point, Stiles?” And Peter isn’t snide, he’s actually trying to be gentle, prod Stiles’ thoughts back on course. See? Not evil.

“We don’t trust you yet.” He winces. “Sorry. Just let me try to-- There are trust issues, lots of them. And,” he realizes as he’s speaking, “you probably have some of your own. Getting set on fire will do that.” Peter grimaces but gestures for Stiles to keep speaking. “Honestly, you are still a little insane--” Who isn’t these days? “--and untrustworthy, but you love your nephew.” There it is. That’s his point. “Whatever you’re planning, your family is going to set you straight. You’re both going to be okay.”

Peter sounds amused but there’s something heartfelt that he can’t quite hide. “You think so, huh?”

“Yes,” Stiles says firmly, never as sure of anything in his life. “If you could just try to let go of everything, including whatever you’re probably plotting right now, and if you could just get him to do the same, you and Derek could save each other.”

Silence. Too much silence, actually, it’s starting to get awkward. Leaving Stiles with his thoughts and the dazed realization that he hasn’t spoken this much in _months_.

“I’m gonna go.” He’s already walking away, hears Peter say his name but doesn’t look back.

\- - -

_His body is not bloody and tattered. His wounds have healed seamlessly. He is brimming with energy and need and hunger and he’s not useless anymore. He will be the one to set it right…_

_Scott is weak. Scott is crying. Scott is pulling the trigger while Stiles growls and snaps and far off in the distance there are furious, panicked howls…_

Stiles is hyperventilating, thinks at first he’s having a panic attack. Realizes he’s fighting for breath because seconds ago he was dying, he was a deranged werewolf with a bullet to the throat because Scott has crappy aim.

This is not his story. His dream is killing the others as they went mad, he was never one of them. This is not his story, he cannot handle anything new, why the hell is this happening now?

Stiles slowly releases the blanket, is surprised it isn’t torn, and tries to focus on his room. His room is real, the dream is not, his computer and his backpack and his window are real, Scott killing him is not.

Once his heart rate slows and his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he can think a little more clearly. And he feels cheated. It had been a good day, damn it, weird conversation with Peter included. Afterward he had felt lighter, productive, familiar.

Stiles tries to focus on the good feelings of yesterday. He gets out of bed and changes because sleep seems pointless, no way is he risking another dream. He gathers a few pieces of paper and a book from the overflowing floor, resuming the cleaning he had started last night, and wonders why he let the mess get this bad in the first place.

\- - -

_His arm is broken, it heals itself…._

_His arm is broken, snaps like a twig, it doesn’t heal, it just bleeds and bleeds and he can see splinters of bone…_

_The whole world doesn’t end, just their small pack…_

_The entire county smells of death. And the poison? Just. Keeps. Going…_

_Derek’s eyes roll back, his fangs are shredding his own lips, there’s foam and sweat and blood, he’s too far gone to speak…_

_Derek is calm. His muscles are taut but he won’t fight, he’s holding his new instincts back. “It’s okay.” It isn’t, it never is. “Let me go.” Stiles doesn’t, not this time…_

_They die fighting, and it’s like any other day, no one even notices, and their bodies are left to burn in a pile…_

_They’re tired of fighting, can’t find a way to stop the others or even slow them, so they leave, Derek and Isaac and Stiles, and drive north…_

_His father had been the first to die, Derek had been next, but he had stayed and fought until the others were gone too, mostly by his own gun, mercy killings, and he could go to Deaton for help, there’s time before he bleeds out, but there’s nothing to stay for. He just wants to go home. The sun is too bright, the sun is dim, he is rubbing his finger and staring forward…_

Throwing up is annoying. It should not be this familiar.

\- - -

Project Happy Thoughts. It’s the best Stiles can do with his dwindling brain power, but he appreciates the punch of sarcasm that comes with the title.

When he’s happy, the dreams are alleviated. The conversation with Peter being an exception. At the very least, he can try to make the others happy: soothing Erica, nudging Peter towards a better life, those things felt good and he wants more.

So what’s next? Derek. Obviously Derek, because everything is Derek these days. Stiles can’t use much of his new knowledge to make Derek smile, because most of it is only boyfriend-appropriate. His cheeks flush from graphic thoughts and suddenly his pants are tight. _Focus_. Right, so, the future doesn’t apply and their present is neutral at best so that leaves the past. Pre-fire. Stiles knows that Derek was different then, can see Derek lying beside him in bed and telling stories in the dark.

\- - -

Two towns over is a retro diner that serves amazing homemade huckleberry pie. When they were young, Derek and Laura were obsessed with the stuff and used to beg their parents for it during every family outing. Stiles is a little surprised the place actually exists but gets his three pies to go and hurries back for movie night.

Derek’s house is barely livable, to be honest, but there’s electricity now and some furniture. Stiles pulls up to lit windows and laughter inside and thinks that it’s starting to look like the home he remembers. He smiles and bites his lip in concentration as he carefully pulls the pie boxes out, walks slowly up the steps and through the open door, trying not to trip, and makes himself focus on dialogue for tonight. He hasn’t slept in two days. He refuses to try. It’s becoming more and more difficult to assemble a sentence, so every interaction now requires preparation.

Fortunately, movie night doesn’t require much, so really he just has to make it to the kitchen, open one of the boxes and--

“Pie!” He gets a few startled glances, thinks he may have been a little loud, but the fantastic scent reaches their noses and they don’t care. He’s relieved of the boxes and soon everyone has purple-stained lips.

“Eat, eat,” he encourages, doling out seconds. “I… I brought plenty. No leftovers for my dad, okay?” Peter is standing nearby, gazing at him and the pies with quiet interest but not saying anything. Not eating, either. Peter used to love this stuff too, why isn’t he…?

Oh, shit.

Derek is in the doorway, glaring at him and quietly fuming, and Stiles thinks he sees something behind the anger, he sees hurt, and no, no, _no_ , that was not what tonight was about. He wanted to make Derek happy. He wanted to get it right, just this once. He didn’t think that pie would remind him of his dead family, of happier times. He didn’t think, period. Fuck, and they’re eating the pie in the family home he’s just now renovating.

Death pie, Stiles thinks in a deadpan. He’s too far gone to even know if it’s funny.

But Stiles can’t explain any of this, can’t even try to make this better, because he wasn’t prepared for confrontation tonight, he hasn’t memorized that script.

“That’s not a smile.” It sounds like dry humor. It isn’t meant to be. “I was hoping for a smile.” Why can’t he fucking explain?! Stiles can actually feel his mind emptying of words. He wants to cry from frustration.

Derek, like always, is silent. He turns and walks out. The others are used to this, just shrug and continue eating. Peter is nowhere in sight. Stiles gathers the remnants of his energy and mind and follows Derek outside.

The night air is cool and Stiles tugs at the sleeves of his hoodie. Derek is hovering near the cars, hasn’t run off into the forest so that’s something, but he’s clearly upset. Stiles can read it in his stance, in the tight lines of his muscles. He can read Derek like a book now.

Focus.

Right, yes, an apology. Something to fix this. An apology for the death pies. He’ll offer to throw out what’s left, obviously. That’s a start. Won’t get rid of the smell, though, the kitchen reeks of fresh baked death pies. Maybe if he cleaned it, though with Derek’s senses-- God, the smell. The others will have huckleberry breath, he can’t fix that. Everyone’s breath is going to remind Derek of his dead sister.

“I’ll add extra garlic to the pizzas!” Stiles blurts out.

Derek’s face scrunches up in confusion. Well. It’s a reaction, at least.

“To cover… Their breath will…” He’s tired. He wants to go home. This is home. He is so screwed. “Please speak.”

Derek is watching him carefully, his own problems temporarily forgotten, and his face is still scrunched up but Stiles kind of likes it that way. It’s cute. “It’s just pie,” Derek says cautiously, like he’s not sure they’re even having the same conversation. “It’s not a big deal.” Lie. Stiles wants to call him out on it. But it’s a way out and he’ll take it, because he doesn’t have many more sentences in him tonight.

He forces a smile and says, “Thank you,” and means it, for a lot reasons, and goes back in.

\- - -

Late that night, the others have left or fallen asleep on the floor. Derek walks into his bedroom and almost walks right back out because Peter is waiting for him.

“Not tonight,” he warns.

Peter waves away his words. “It’s about Stiles. Something is wrong. You’ve noticed it too.”

“So?” Derek challenges. “I have my own problems.”

Peter frowns. “His problems are yours. And please don’t waste my time by denying it. I’ve known you longer than those kids downstairs, I know what your lies sound like. Find Stiles, talk to him alone.”

Derek crosses his arms and maintains eye contact but doesn’t say a word. Peter eventually gives in to the stony silence with a melodramatic sigh and walks out with the parting words, “Really, the poor boy deserves better.” Derek’s shoulders sag.

\- - -

Stiles is looking in the mirror, sees his reddened eyes and sallow skin and doesn’t even care, and calmly asks his reflection what month it is.

And it’s like some spark of original Stiles is snapped awake, because then he’s seeing himself, _really_ seeing himself and actually caring about the details, and wondering what the fuck has happened to him now.

But wondering is exhausting, and Stiles is already climbing into bed and under the blanket, with that mental spark scrambling to offer up something useful, and mutters to himself that he’ll rest, he just needs to rest a bit is all, and then everything will be clear.

Everything will be easier.

And the spark in his brain is yelling at him in annoyance, even as it fades away.

\- - -

Stiles is taking a shower. He doesn’t remember waking up, he doesn’t remember coming in here, it doesn’t even feel like morning.

It’s nice, though, the white noise of falling drops helps to drown out his thoughts, and the warm water hitting his back could almost be fingers, Derek’s fingers, carefully massaging him after a long day.

He’s safe here. It’s quiet and Derek with him. He never wants to leave.

He stares at his skin, watching it turn red from the heat. Something black catches his eye and he frowns, rubbing his fingers together. There’s a wet streak of fresh ink on his fingertip.

Ignore it.

Yes, good idea. Enough thinking for one night.

\- - -

Still tired but feeling refreshed, Stiles walks into his bedroom with a towel at his waist and considers what to do until morning. Reddit, maybe, or Wikipedia, or he could download--

“Oh my - are you freaking kidding - Derek Hale, no! Just, no!” All shouted while Stiles grabs at his towel before his wild gestures leave him wet and naked in front of Derek, who is sitting passively on his bed reading a book. Good thing his dad is gone, because the shouting and the former murder suspect are not things he can explain tonight. He’s not even sure his sputters were actual words.

He’s still making incomprehensible noises at Derek. Derek isn’t helping. He’s just looking at Stiles, then around the room, then back at Stiles. Finally he clears his throat and suggests, “I could wait in the hallway while you change.”

Stiles gapes. Sighs. “No. Just turn around.” Derek turns his head as told and waits. Between Derek’s antisocial ways and Stiles being the mess he is, the room is uncomfortably silent, so he hurries towards his dresser and pulls on the first sweats and t-shirt he finds. He just wants to get whatever this is over with, so he can get back to not sleeping.

“All clear.” Derek turns back and waits. Stiles waits. He eventually rolls his eyes and sits at his desk since his bed has been claimed by a taciturn sourwolf.

“So….” He waits some more. Derek raises an eyebrow, doesn’t reply. He really looks like Peter when he does that, but the idea isn’t as creepy as it used to be.

Stiles flails a bit. “Dude! Why? Why are you here?”

Derek’s face clears in understanding. “Oh.” He actually seems uncertain, then he covers it with a scowl. Stiles really loves those scowls. “You texted me, remember?”

Nope, not even a little. “I… Didn’t, actually.”

Derek rolls his eyes and fishes out his phone. “You did, 15 minutes ago.” He holds out his phone, and sure enough there’s the message: Come over.

Stiles is immediately red, probably head to toe, wants to crawl under the mess on his floor and hide forever. “I’m… Sleep-texting? Is that a thing? I was sleep-showering a minute ago, it’s probably the same.” He pushes some old homework around with his toes. Lydia’s right, his room is disgusting.

“Stiles,” Derek asks softly, in a tone Stiles is familiar with but shouldn’t be, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Notice my lie. Don’t. Help me. Leave.

Derek looks conflicted, but eventually settles for saying nothing. Big surprise. But this silence is better. It’s comfortable and easy.

“I’m tired,” Stiles confesses, not sure where the words are coming from. “I just need…” Derek, fix this. Make the dreams go away, or at least make them useful. Why can’t I see into you like I see everything else? You’re what I want, and the bits I’ve seen are never enough, and they’re not even real, are they?

“I’m tired too,” Derek admits, averting his eyes. Stiles wonders if either of them is talking about sleep.

“You’re doing well, you know. Better than you think. With the whole Alpha thing.” Derek glances up, surprised, and Stiles sees a glint of gratitude. He feels energized by it. “And, and the house. Rebuilding. It’s good. I know you don’t want to, but it’s the right choice.” In his dreams, some bastard eventually burns it down a second time. The look on Derek’s face that night haunts him. Well, that’s not happening. This time, Stiles will protect what’s his.

“We’re fixing the roof next month. So we can start on the upstairs bedrooms.” There’s a grimace. “Peter is already choosing color schemes.”

Stiles snorts. “Keeping him busy is good. We have enough to worry about. Next, we can distract him with china patterns and landscaping. Keep him going the whole summer.” How is he speaking like this? With Derek the words taste like honey. It feels like a small miracle.

“That’s… actually a good idea.” Derek grins, an actual, honest, wry grin. “Watching him can be a challenge. Start planning his fall activities while you’re at it, okay?”

Stiles laughs.

“Stiles?”

“Hmm?”

“Why won’t you tell me? Or Scott?”

Damn. Moment over. “Can we not? Please?”

It takes a second, but Derek shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Sure.” He eyes the window. “So I should go.”

“It’s raining,” Stiles says immediately. Wait, is it? He peeks out his window, and yes, there is a steady downpour. “It’ll pass. Stay until the weather clears.”

Derek is watching Stiles as he nods, but doesn’t move. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Jacket off. Relax. Read your book. I’ll just be--” He gestures at his computer. “Oh, and if you’re hungry, I think there’s some leftovers. Are you hungry? I’m not, but you go ahead.”

“You talk too much.” Derek says it with a slight smile. It doesn’t even sound like a complaint, just an observation. Stiles responds with a full blown grin, feeling himself blush at that small smile, wanting more, and aimed at him, only him, forever please.

“You’ll get used to it. It took Scott, like, a decade, but I’m guessing you have a better learning curve. Anyway, get comfortable, okay? And tell me if that book’s any good, I never got to the end.”

Derek scrunches his eyebrows together. “You don’t sleep. If you’re not reading, what do you do all night?”

No idea, actually. Nights are kind of melting together at this point. “Um, internet mostly? And I sleep. Just… not well.”

Derek rolls his eyes and stands up.

“Are you leaving?” Stiles tries not to sound like he’s whining, but he doesn’t think he succeeds.

“No. I‘m not going anywhere.” Derek makes it sound obvious, and Stiles‘ heart skips a beat. “We’re swapping seats.”

“We’re-- What are we doing?” Another eyeroll. Stiles wonders if everything Derek does is attractive to him now. He can’t really think of an exception.

“You sleep here.” Derek points at the bed for emphasis. “I will sit here,” pointing at the chair Stiles is occupying, “and read until the rain stops.”

Stiles tries not to squirm. “Derek, I really don’t--”

“Stiles.” God, nothing has ever sounded that gentle. “Sleep.”

Yeah. “Yes. Okay.”

“I’m here.” His heart slows at the reassurance. Maybe it’ll be okay, with Derek here. Maybe that’s all he needed. When the pack spent the night he was fine.

Stiles gets under the blanket, aware of his legs curling into the warm spot left by Derek, and tries to focus on sleep. He is tired, but he doesn’t want to rest. Derek is here and it seems like such a waste. Of course, he wants a lot of things that aren’t going to happen, not tonight and probably never. So, really…

“I can feel you thinking,” Derek grumbles. “Stiles, _go to sleep_.”

“I’m trying,” he insists, trying not to fidget. “I can’t just, bam!, fall asleep.”

“It’s been 20 minutes.” Wait, really? “Go to sleep.” It’s not going to happen. Stiles can tell. But he tries to relax, for Derek’s sake as much as his own, and finds that their set-up is actually quite cozy. The room is warm, the rhythm of the rain is like music, and the only sound inside is the occasional turn of a page. He likes this, he wants this, he wants what he saw, minus the awful.

Crap.

The air is suddenly thick and the silence is strained. His body is reacting to the harsh images now flooding his mind, and he knows that Derek can sense it. His heart rate, his adrenaline, his breathing…

“Stiles.”

Please don’t. Please ignore it. For me. Ignoring is almost working, try with me.

“Stiles. I know you’re awake.” Derek sighs, sounds frustrated, and Stiles feels guilty for being so annoying. “I don’t know what to do.”

Wow.

Derek is frustrated with himself. Derek is admitting weakness. Derek has probably never used that sentence before in his life.

“There’s nothing to…” Stiles doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He wants to comfort, to reassure. But he’s hollow, there’s nothing left to offer. Their cozy night is fading and it isn’t fair.

“Are you sure? I know you said you don’t want to talk about it, but you can, you know. I don‘t-- I’m not sure what to say, but I can try.” He sounds different. Solemn.

His voice makes Stiles want a lot of things.

Stiles wants to turn and look at him just to read his eyes, but Derek’s voice is so tempting right now that Stiles doesn’t trust himself. Instead he stares at the dirty laundry on his floor.

He ignores the pull he feels between them.

He wants, more than _anything_ he wants to tell the truth. He wants to sit up and see Derek and explain everything.

He wants to say:

I’m drowning.

I’m losing it.

Something is very, very wrong, and the only thing keeping me sane is you. I’m holding onto you so tightly, and you don’t even know it.

But instead he says, “Everything’s fine.” He flinches at the lie.

Stiles focuses on the sounds of rain and turning pages to calm his heart, and pretends to fall asleep.

\- - -

He _is_ asleep, and he can’t wake up. He’s trapped. And he’s fed up.

The dreams aren’t here. Not yet. He doesn’t want another one. He doesn’t know how to stop it. He’s not sure that this black abyss is better.

Somewhere, pages are turning. Derek is near. Derek is gone.

No. Derek is here and he won’t leave him. Stiles knows this.

Stiles knows a lot of things, a voice whispers. Stiles could know more.

And it would matter. All of it.

There’s a word on the tip of his tongue, and he feels it most when Derek is around. For weeks and weeks, he’s dying to say it, gagging on the word, chasing it around his brain, but it’s always elusive.

Painful pictures are coming into view. Screams and sobs and recriminations. More of the same.

Focus.

Focus on the word.

The spark has returned, the feeling of how he used to be, and it’s pushing the memories away. Stiles is pushing them away, feels something inside himself waking up.

Focus on Derek. Focus on who you are. You are stronger than this.

You are not strong. You’re weak. Everyone knows it. Everyone will leave. Derek will leave.

Derek won’t leave. Somewhere close, pages are turning and rain is falling. Those things are real. Derek is real. These memories are not--

There. Focus.

Focus on the word, on the tip of your tongue, focus on what you know to be true.

These are memories. These are facts. What you see is true. What you see--

Focus.

Focus.

Say the word on the tip of your tongue. One word. After so many pouring out for Derek, say one more. Just one more.

It’s--

Yes. No. Never. Always. And shut thehellup I’m doing this, it’srealitisn’t, this will happen, I will notgivein pleasetry trying hurts.

Stiles. Focus. Now.

Derek is here, Derek will hear.

Wake up, and say the word on the tip of your tongue.

Say the word.

\- - -

He’s gasping for breath, he’s wincing from sunlight, he’s hitting his elbow, _hard_ , and then his head, and choking on a piece of paper.

He clambers up from the floor, takes in his surroundings, realizes with a shaky heart that his room is empty and his window is open, his chair is still spinning -Derek _just_ left- and hears his father pulling up outside.

Something is pulling him to bed, but it isn’t exhaustion, it feels cold and foreign and Stiles is _done_.

He will focus.

Stiles walks to the bathroom mirror and presses his palms against the cool glass.

He feels the word on the tip of his tongue--

“Real.” He blinks in surprise at his rough voice, and because really? That’s the word?

“Real,” he repeats cautiously. It sounds right. It feels true. But it doesn’t really mean…

“Real. Real. It’s real. Real, real. The dreams are real.”

God, oh crap, the headache and the nausea and all of it is back, full-force, because it seems obvious and he feels so stupid, and he’s even been _calling_ them _memories_ all along and how the hell did he not know?

The dreams are real. The dreams will happen.

Something is coming and people will die. His pack will die.

Stiles tries to breathe. His dad cannot find him having a panic attack.

The dreams are real.

Everything will be real, if he doesn’t fix it.

Stiles stares at his reflection, fingers the glass, tries to steady himself. And this time when he says it, he knows it. “The dreams are real.”


	3. I will shut the world away

**MAY**

 

Stiles has a plan. It’s not much of plan. In fact, it’s only three words. Failure is very likely, and the small part of him still in denial is actively cheering for failure.

But he has a plan, and for now that’s all he needs.

\- - -

Stiles doesn’t tell Derek. He tells himself that _he_ knows, and that’s enough for now. Something in him tightens with stress, something else sags with relief.

Small steps, he reassures himself.

\- - -

Summer is his saving grace. He just needs to get through finals and then he’s free.

“The dreams are real,” he acknowledges every morning, showering and dressing and having breakfast and hurrying to school. He knows, and knowing feels like control.

Time with friends or Derek or his dad is easier, now. He’s well-practiced. He can smile and crack jokes and talk, not as much as he used to but better than lately. Everyone sees the improvement and gladly accepts. He figures they have enough to worry about without him falling apart.

He even looks better. He sleeps every night now, which he hadn’t expected but is grateful for. He doesn’t dream, of course. It’s just hours of black nothing. And his brain feels… shaky. Like it’s sitting on a crumbling foundation. His mind needs rest and isn’t getting it. He doesn’t know why. But his body is recovering and that’s enough for Stiles.

Each day is a routine, and routines are easy to follow, and easy is good, because he’s losing time now, hours gone in an instant. He blinks and class is over. Conversation at lunch is like static and fog. Nobody notices. Either they don’t care or he’s doing something convincing, over and over.

Stiles hasn’t told anyone. That’s what matters, he reminds himself.

\- - -

The plan is simple, and simple is good for his faltering mind.

Finals.

Oregon.

Tell.

He writes his plan down on a piece of paper and keeps it with him always. To keep him focused. To remember that he has a purpose.

These days, when he’s feeling crazier than usual, he doesn’t rub his ring finger. He reaches into his pocket and caresses the paper.

Finals, Oregon, tell, finals, Oregon, tell, finals, Oregon, SPEAK. It becomes his mantra.

\- - -

Stiles hates his bedroom. He doesn’t know why.

Stiles yearns for his bedroom, the dim light and cool sheets and safety of an enclosed space that is his, only his. He doesn’t know why.

He sleeps on the couch for two or three days at a time, until the need is too much, and then he settles into his room again. His dad observes this but doesn’t comment. There’s a lot they’re both not saying these days.

The mess in his room continues to grow. He can’t even see the floor anymore.

\- - -

Sleep may be confusing but the time before sleep is not. This is when Stiles actually feels alive.

He lies, on his bed or on the couch, and relaxes in the dark. Takes deep breaths. Shoves away the day and embraces the night. He is alone and it is quiet and he is safe and it could be like this always, wouldn’t you like that, don’t you want _more_?

No. Focus.

_More_ is terrible. He has enough to sort through, thank you.

And that’s what he does, night after night. He lies in the dark and stares at nothing and carefully sorts through the nightmare slideshow he now knows by heart.

Blood gushes from Lydia’s slashed neck. Scott is chewing on the corpse of an infant. And Derek--

In one timeline, Derek and he are both wolves, and relish the madness side by side. It feels glorious. It feels tainted.

Focus.

This is the hard part. Focusing. Seeing what he sees and not feeling anything. But he has to. Stiles has to learn to see these gruesome things and be numb, otherwise he’s useless. Again. Like always.

No, this opportunity is his. His resource. There’s more than dreams, there’s vague ideas and understandings that come with them, the general knowledge of the men he becomes.

_Derek’s fingers…_

Yes, and other more important things, so _focus_.

Wherever these dreams came from, they’re his, and Stiles is determined. He will stop it all.

So he sorts, slowly, knowing that all his dreams are different outcomes from the same source. He will discover the cause of so much pain and he will protect what’s his. He will find the person responsible.

Unfortunately, all he’s done so far it narrow it down to a state. Oregon. Which feels right, there’s something about the place that entices him in a queasy kind of way, and it’s not far so that’s something…

Still. Oregon. Population 3,871,859. Clearly he still has work to do.

\- - -　

Finals are finally over. Stiles buys a pack of brightly colored Sharpies to celebrate and gleefully crosses out step one, repeatedly. Realizes he’s down to two steps now, realizes the end is near, and tries to calm his churning stomach. Thinks he’ll probably have ulcers when this is over.

Stiles hasn’t told anyone, though. That makes it worthwhile.

 

　

**JUNE**

 

The time loss is frustrating and scary and it’s getting worse. But it also has its uses.

Two days after school ends, Stiles sits at his computer, trying to research and failing, ignoring the siren call of his bed. It’s difficult to find anything useful online when the things you see and the events you experience don’t exist yet. Not to mention that everything is werewolf-related, and finding something non-fictional is difficult at best.

It’s 10:48pm.

If everyone knew, Stiles muses, doodling in his notebook, there would be helplines and crisis centers for this sort of thing. 1-800-WEREWLF. His doodles become loops and lines. He could call and explain his mess and a trained professional would reassure him that human pack members go through this crap all the time, it’s perfectly natural, sir, here’s your easy fix.

He pictures Derek as a werewolf guidance counselor, complete with polo shirt and pocket protector, and giggles.

Then freezes. His random scribbling has formed a word: Connell.

_Connell._

_Stephen-fucking-Connell and all he represents._

It’s 11: 57pm.

Stiles hasn’t thrown up in weeks. He really hasn’t missed it.

He makes it to the bathroom, barely, vomits, sits and shakes for five minutes, vomits again, gets fed up and walks back to his computer, stares at the paper and the name and steels his stomach and keeps staring like that will actually do anything and just focuses and focuses until the name is loops and lines and nothing at all really and don’t you know there’s an easier way? Don’t you want more? Tell me what you want, Stiles…

Something plastic snaps. Stiles blinks, frowns, stares at the wet mess on his hand and the shards of plastic poking into his skin. He’s still at his desk, pen in hand, and he’s holding it so tightly that it broke. Black ink is trailing down his fingers and pooling in his palm. Black ink dripping everywhere.

Focus on that--

No, Stiles grumbles to himself. There’s enough to focus on already, and a mess to clean up. He hurries to the bathroom and washes the ink away, checks the scratches on his hand but there’s no blood, hurries back to his computer and checks the time.

It’s 4:08am.

See? He has so much to figure out and time keeps slipping past him, at this rate--

Stiles blinks. Stares at his desk. Touches his notebook with still-wet fingers.

_Stephen Connell, 314 Larkspur Road, Eugene, Oregon_

The handwriting is his. Stiles almost wishes it wasn’t.

\- - -

Stiles’ dad is working a double shift. He left an hour ago and won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Stiles thinks this will be enough time to drive to Oregon, do what he needs to, and come back. He leaves a note saying that he’s spending the night at Scott’s, just to cover his tracks.

In his dad’s room, there’s a small safe under the bed. Stiles knows the combination but his fingers are trembling and it takes three tries to get it right. He takes out the gun and some bullets. He tries not to look at it.

\- - -

Stiles thinks it would be so much easier if he wasn’t alone. He navigates morning traffic and sleepy pedestrians and it’s like there’s plexiglass between him and the world.

Stiles thinks… Stiles really thinks he could do this and stay sane, if he wasn’t alone.

Stiles thinks he should tell someone. Stiles knows he can’t.

\- - -

Stiles is driving on the interstate and rubbing his finger without thinking. He misses Derek, hasn’t spoken to him in days, hasn’t seen him in a week. He wonders which version of Derek he’s missing, knows that he would take any or all, really. Derek is Derek, no matter what.

Once upon a time, he was going to tell Derek. He remembers that, feels stronger just thinking of that morning. Things had seemed easier, for a little while.

Stiles takes a breath and thinks of his plan. The paper is in his pocket, burning through his jeans. He has a plan. Two more steps, and he’s free. He can do this. The plan…

The plan is three fucking words. The plan is a joke. The plan isn’t going to save him.

The speed limit changes and Stiles speeds up.

\- - -

The problem isn’t Stephen Connell, it’s the wolfsbane he grows. Hybrids. Special breeds. New ones, year after year, to harm and scar and kill.

The flowers are green. Stiles has seen them twice in his dreams, a different shade each time. And as he accepts more of his dreams, even more details trickle in, like a stream slowly swelling into a river. He understands that different flowers lead to different outcomes. Some only harm werewolves, some need to be ingested, others are passed to humans through bodily fluids. Sometimes the insanity is temporary, sometimes it’s fatal.

Stiles knows this. He knows more. So much more, rushing into his head, filling it to the brim, organized and logical and coming from nowhere, urging him on as he enters Eugene.

\- - -

He finds the street. He finds the house. Stiles has never been here but he never glances at the map. He just knows.

Isn’t it easy?

He parks the jeep and gets out, walking slowly up the sidewalk and staring at the small cottage in front of him. This is not the evil lair he was expecting. This house is a Disney movie. There are trellises and singing birds. Cement gnomes and a rose garden.

And wolfsbane. Rows of it along the house. Just purple, no green, though one patch has white stripes that seem out of place.

The anger is sudden and hot and acidic. His muscles clench. He knocks on the front door and pats his bag to feel the weight of the gun.

Won’t this feel good?

He knocks again, unsure how to stand still and control all this energy and emotion. Standing still was never his specialty, and god, what if Connell isn’t here? Can he wait without exploding?

“Can I help you?”

Stiles spins, nearly loses his balance, grabs a decorative flagpole to steady himself. “Hi! Sorry, hi!”

Connell. The man watching him from the lawn is Connell. Stiles has never seen him, but he knows him. He’s tall and lean and his brown hair is thinning at the top. His t-shirt is worn and torn, probably used for mowing and weeding. He’s… normal. Stiles wasn’t expecting that.

Do it now.

Stiles frowns, tries to shake himself. He hears noise and realizes the words are his, Stiles is speaking and pointing down the road. How is this happening?

“…just yesterday, the movers didn’t even get here ‘til this morning.”

Connell is nodding politely but observing his every twitch and gesture.

“So what can I do you, Mr. --?” He’s waiting for a name.

“I’m-- Sorry. Right.” Stiles laughs, walks closer and offers his hand. “Stephen.” Look, lying was never Stiles’ strong suit. “Stephen Smith.”

“Stephen, huh?” Connell grins. “Me too. So, what can I do for you, Stephen Smith?”

Crap. “Well.” Think.

Don’t think. Do it now!

“You have…” Months with very little conversation. Why didn’t Stiles prepare? He won’t make it through this. “…aconite.” He points to the flowers dumbly. “Those purple things are aconite.”

Oh, shit. Connell is definitely interested now. “I’m not sure. The garden is my wife’s thing.”

Stiles nods. He can do this. “Yep. They are. Um. I don’t garden either, but my mom--” His mouth is dry. “--she does. She used to. When we lived in California. She saw your flowers when we drove by. She wasn’t sure that they would grow this far north. Or her roses.” Stiles gestures cartoonishly towards the lawn. “You have both!” Deep breath, Stiles. Think about flowers. And nothing else. “She doesn’t-- She was wondering if you had any tips. Gardening tips. To keep them alive.” Don’t think about dead things. “Y’know, with the cold and everything.”

Connell doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he has a very familiar look now. The “this kid is _weird_ ” look that Stiles knows so well. “Why don’t we go inside? See if there’s anything useful?”

Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

Only Stiles is the spider now, he thinks, since he’s the one with the gun.

\- - -

There is mountain ash everywhere. The air is practically thrumming with its energy. Connell had watched him carefully as he stepped over the threshold but kept his face blank.

Why, no, I’m not a werewolf. I’m just here to protect them.

Stiles is sitting on a yellow sofa with angel figurines to his left and a ceramic swan to his right. Connell must seriously love his wife to live like this.

Stiles sways a little and clutches at the upholstery to steady himself. Connell has a wife. Connell has a home and a life and Connell is a hunter too, let’s not forget that, let’s remember that any second he will be back, probably with a crossbow or something, and then one of them is going to be dying on the floor and staining the white carpet.

“I’m about to kill someone,” he realizes in monotone. “This is real.”

No.

The room is blurring.

_Please_ , no.

His skin feels tight. Sweat is trickling down his back.

Not this.

“I’m about to kill someone.” Say it again. “I’m about to…”

Connell has killed. He knew what his poison was and he kept going. People will die. People that Stiles loves will die, and thousands others, maybe more, if he doesn’t fix this before it starts.

“I will…” You will what? If you can’t say it, you’re not strong enough to do it. “I’m about to…”

Yes, you are. Do it now.

Stiles’ eyes are stinging. It’s getting dark, and he’s so tired. And heartbroken. He wonders if time will skip again, and if that would be better or worse.

“No,” he chokes, “I’m not-- No.” He shakes his head, tries to clear the cobwebs. At the back of his mind, something is screeching.

“No!” He yanks himself up, hurriedly slings his backpack over his shoulder, pulls his phone out without thinking and his hand is shaking so hard he drops the damn thing.

Do it. Do it now. Kill the bastard now.

“I. Said. No.” The words hurt. Like every syllable has to be scraped from his throat. His teeth are grinding together. His heart is pounding. But something new is feeding his adrenaline and he feels cleaner, somehow, and almost capable.

“I‘m… leaving,” he grinds out, “and I… will… _not_ be…”

“Who are you talking to?” Connell is standing in front of him with a sales flyer in his hand.

“I’m…” Stiles is drained. No more conversation, okay? “My phone.” He grabs it and holds it up as proof. “Always dropping the damn thing. Um. Soooo…” He eyes the door.

Connell steps closer. “Stephen, are you okay? You don’t look well. Why don’t you sit back down and I can get some water.”

“Really, really, no.” Stiles edges towards the door, death grip on his phone. “It’s the heat. We’ve been… unpacking… all day. I’m worn out.” Ain’t that the truth. “So, I’m gonna go, and I’ll just, ya know, send my mom over? Sometime? For gardening tips and stuff.” His hand is on the knob, he is _so close_ to freedom.

“Wait.” Damn.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks warily, turning around.

“Here.” Connell hands him the flyer. “It’s the greenhouse on Mulberry. We use their organic fertilizer. You’d be amazed at the difference. Their number is on the back. I‘m sure they can help your mother out.”

“That… is so thoughtful. Really.” Healthy soil for healthy killer plants. Makes sense. “I’ll be sure to give it to her.”

Connell smiles. It looks genuine. He offers his hand. “It was great to meet you, Stephen. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks? Thank you! Really.” Stiles shakes his hand quickly. “That’s very nice.”

“I’ll see you around, okay?” No freaking chance in hell, man.

\- - -

Stiles drives and doesn’t allow himself to think. He barely breathes until he reaches California. He minds the speed limit and watches constantly for state troopers, painfully aware of the concealed weapon beside him.

What the hell has happened to his life?

\- - -

Another hundred miles to Beacon Hills, but Stiles knows this area, remembers a lot of back roads and thick forest that are perfect for privacy. He chooses the first secluded spot he can find, a grassy clearing far enough away from the road that he can’t hear cars driving by.

Stiles thinks he might be sick, the churning in his gut is certainly familiar, but he kneels in the dirt for ten minutes and nothing happens.

Nothing happened earlier, and he’s paying for it now.

There’s time to go back.

No. Fuck that. No more guns. No more murder plots. “I said no,” he mumbles to the grass, “and I meant it.”

Home. “Home. I’m going home.” Home is safe.

Not always.

Again, fuck that. His home and his friends and family will be safe. He will find another way.

Weak.

Not this time.

The sun is warming his back and it feels good but it feels wrong too, and Stiles does not want the memories right now, he does not have the energy, he does not have the patience. His brain is melting. Enough is enough.

Go back.

“No.” His fingers are itching to do something, he ignores the pull of the gun in the jeep. “I am not-- No.”

Yes.

“No, and no, always and forever no.” Stiles jumps up, starts pacing quickly, tries to burn away some of the energy he doesn’t actually have. “I am not killing someone.”

He deserves it.

“Maybe. He maybe does, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter because it isn’t happening.” As he says it, Stiles realizes that it’s true. Connell isn’t dying today. Stiles said no and he meant it, and now he’s far away.

“My decision.”

Coward. Weak. Failure. Death.

“Fuck you,” he hisses to no one. “Fuck you and your fucking dreams, I am _done_.”

Go back.

“AND I SAID NO!” His screams echo and birds scatter from the trees nearby. He tries to say more but his words are choking him.

Stiles realizes he’s crying.

“I don’t want this,” he manages, “I don’t want any of this, but it’s mine. The dreams are mine so the decision is mine. I will make this work another way.” He takes a couple of shuddering breaths and walks back to the jeep. His backpack is where he left it, the gun is still inside. Honestly, Stiles doesn’t know what he was expecting.

\- - -

The finals miles seem to stretch forever. Months of exhaustion hit him at once. More than once he says ‘fuck you’ to the empty passenger seat just for the satisfaction.

There are drab gray clouds hanging low over Beacon Hills. Stiles laughs. They don’t even look real, they look like something from a cartoon, there isn’t even thunder or rain. Just massive clouds in suspended animation. Stiles knows the feeling.

The gun is still calling to him, his bed is calling to him, Oregon is calling to him, but he ignores it all, and the more he ignores the better he feels. He thinks of his night with Derek and how the feeling is the same. Not easier, but better. Like things are maybe _possible_ now.

He holds onto that feeling, even as his eyes are drooping. The drive is almost over. Step Three of his epic plan is Tell, and that’s exactly what he intends to do.

\- - -

Stiles rings the doorbells and fidgets with his backpack. Doesn’t want it anywhere near him, actually, but he can’t leave a loaded weapon unattended. With his luck? No way.

Downstairs lights turn on and the door opens to reveal Chris Argent, who is clearly surprised to find Stiles on his doorstep. He takes a minute to glance behind him, ensures that Stiles is alone, and then really notices Stiles’ appearance.

Stiles can only guess how dire he must look by now. Hopefully, looking weak and miserable will work in his favor.

“Stiles? Is everything okay?”

Laughing would be inappropriate, right? “No. Not really. I need to speak with you, please.” Argent looks around again. “I’m alone.”

Argent hesitates but steps aside. “Allison isn’t here.”

“Good. I would prefer it if this stays between us.”

Argent leads them into the dining room and they both sit down. “What’s going on?”

Stiles has plenty to say, carefully mapped out in his head. He can’t remember any of it now. “There’s a man in Oregon. Eugene, Oregon. His name is Stephen Connell.”

Argent is definitely listening now. “How do you know that name?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I could ask you the same. Do you know every hunter on the West Coast, or is this just a terrible coincidence?” He waves his hands spastically. “You know what, never mind. I wanted you to find him, so this just makes things easier.”

“You want me to find a hunter for you.”

“Connell.” He fishes in his pocket and produces Connell’s address. “Here. Just.” He takes a breath. “I need to tell you something, and it probably won’t make sense and you _definitely_ won’t like it, but please please just let me finish at least, okay?”

Argent nods and folds his hands, showing that he’s paying attention.

Another shaky breath. “Connell is going to do something bad.” He feels lightheaded. “He’s messing around with wolfsbane. I don’t know how long, but the stuff in his yard is not normal. And,” he hesitates, “and maybe you already know, because he’s making new breeds of it to hurt werewolves, and you hunt werewolves, so…”

“Stiles, you can tell me.” Stiles scrunches his face up, tries really hard not to cry, ignores the pictures in his head and the gun in his bag and bites his cheek until it bleeds just to keep himself in the moment. “I’ll help you if I can.”

“Promise?” He is crying now. It feels good.

“Yes. What has he done?”

“That’s the problem,” he quivers, “he hasn’t yet. I don’t think. I don’t _know_. But the only way I can stop him is… Just, no, okay? I can’t do that.” He’s cold.

“How do you know he’s going to do something? Did someone tell you?”

Stiles shrinks into his seat. “I can’t-- I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay. But you haven’t told me what he’s going to do. Connell grows special strains of wolfsbane, yes, I’ve used it myself, but we only use it against serious threats.”

“Like Derek?” Stiles snarls. “You think he deserves whatever he gets.”

To his credit, Argent stays calm. “My wife is dead. And Derek--”

“Derek makes stupid decisions for good reasons,” Stiles snaps. “What about Gerard? Can you justify his intentions? Because I was tortured in this house, in your fucking basement. But here I am. I walked through your front door and I am trusting you so please trust me too.”

Focus.

Stiles is crying again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angry.” Stiles looks up and, no, he really isn’t. He looks concerned. He looks like he wants to help. Chris Argent is a good guy, evil family aside, and Stiles thinks that maybe he’s finally getting something right.

Argent goes to the kitchen and Stiles rubs roughly at his face with his sleeve. Argent comes back with two bottles of water and a soft smile. “Better?”

“No,” he whispers honestly, accepting the water, “but I’m trying.”

“Aren’t we all.”

Stiles grins, frowns, starts peeling the label from his bottle to distract from the images in his head. Just finish this, he thinks, and then you’re done. Connell is stopped and the dreams end.

“The wolfsbane is dangerous. Or it will be, soon. The stuff with the green petals. It’s poison. It makes werewolves insane.” His foot starts bouncing nervously. “Sometimes human, too. It-- It depends. But it’s bad. It’s always bad. And it spreads. Sometimes the pollen poisons the air. Sometimes it spreads through saliva and blood. Sometimes…” You’re safe here. Speak. “Sometimes there’s a cure and sometimes there isn’t. That’s why we have to stop Connell. He’ll keep going until he makes something horrible, and we might not be able to clean up whatever mess he makes.”

Stiles wants to throw up. There’s a hurricane in his head. He’s so close, he’s almost done.

“People will die, okay? Even if you d-don’t believe me, or don’t care about werewolves, you care about people. We have to protect them. Please.” Argent smiles again, covers Stiles’ hands with his own and squeezes.

And Stiles’ head is blissfully quiet.

The room is quiet, too. Stiles eyes Argent uncertainly and opens his mouth but isn’t sure what else to say. Words are exhausting.

“I need a minute,” Argent says. “Just let me think.”

Stiles nods and focuses on his bottle again, slowly screwing the lid on and off. The quiet is nice. This house is nice, except for the torture chamber. It feels like a home. Stiles remembers that his dad won’t be home until morning, and seriously considers begging for a guest room.

“Stiles?” He looks up. Argent has already put away his own bottle and is now sitting closer, but Stiles doesn’t think too much time has passed, just a few minutes maybe. Things are already looking up.

“I want you to know that I believe you. And I’m going to fix this.” Relief runs through Stiles like a cool breeze. “There are a lot of questions I should probably be asking, but--” He gives Stiles an assessing look. “--it can wait. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Is there anything else I should know right now? Any useful information?”

Lots of information. An overload of information. Nothing that Argent needs to know. “No, I don’t think so. We just-- You just stop him before it goes too far, right? And that should be enough.”

Argent frowns and sighs softly. “I just can’t believe it. I mean,” he rushes, seeing Stiles' panicked look, “I _believe_ it, I’m just disappointed. I’ve known Stephen for years. We’re not friends, exactly, but I thought I knew him better than this. He’s changed, though, since Miranda died.”

“Miranda?”

“His wife.”

“I thought-- He made it sound like she was still alive.”

“Oh. No. She was attacked last year during a hunt.” Argent busies himself cleaning up Stiles’ water bottle and bits of torn label. “He came to town after Victoria was-- After my wife died. He knew what I was going through and he offered to help.”

“Connell was _here_?” Stiles squeaks.

“A while ago. March, maybe?” He studies Stiles. “Is that relevant?”

The stabbing sensation in his head would suggest yes. Ignoring it, Stiles thinks, I’m ignoring it, I’m barely conscious as it is.

“Probably not.” Stiles gets up and gestures towards the door. “I should really get going. My dad will wonder where I am.”

“Are you okay to drive? I can give you a ride, if you like.”

“Nah, nope, I’m fine. Thank you though.” It feels good to really smile for once. “For everything, you know? Thank you. I wasn’t sure-- There aren’t a lot of people I could go to with this.”

“I’m glad you told me. Hunters are responsible for hunters. I’ll call you when I’ve sorted this out, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“Take care, Stiles.”

\- - -

Stiles is careful. He drives home carefully. He carries his backpack carefully. He replaces the gun carefully. He is risking nothing tonight.

He ignores his room, ignores the aches and pains of his body, and piles some blankets on the couch.

He turns on television and chooses a spectacularly bad 80’s action movie to use as background noise. He bundles himself up like a blanket mummy and thinks only of cheesy movie dialogue and sleep.

A small smile spreads across his lips. It’s over. He’s free.

\- - -

_The Alpha rips at Derek’s throat, again and again…_

Thunder is rumbling, the wind is roaring.

_The Alpha keeps his distance, but his Betas appear and spread out around him, thirty or more, and how the fuck are they supposed to fight that…_

Lightning flashes, once, twice, illuminating Stiles’ strained face.

_The Alpha is their Alpha now, Derek is bloody and eviscerated, a crumpled body on the steps of the Hale house…_

A torrential downpour outside, white static on the television, moans and whimpers from the couch.

_There is no pack. There aren’t even bodies to bury. Peter is slowly healing in the backseat. He’s in shock, can’t stop shaking. Stiles drives away before the Alpha notices they’re missing…_

Stiles jumps, falls off the couch, starts dry-heaving on the floor.

He’s crying again. It doesn’t feel good like it did before.

\- - -

Fuck this. Fuck it all. Whatever this is, screw it.

Stiles is angry. Stiles is fucking _furious_. Stiles will not be stopped.

His limbs are bursting with energy and he does not hesitate. He flies up the steps two at a time and races into his room, and begins blindly throwing paper and trash into a garbage bag.

He will clean, like a normal person. He will sleep, like a normal person. Tomorrow he will make plans with his friends, like a normal person.

And if he looks like shit and if there’s something to say, well, he’s gonna explain. He’s gonna open his mouth and _speak_ and nothing is holding him back anymore.

Stiles is the one in control.

The room is hot. Something is hissing. Stiles hears it and ignores it. He figures that if he was going to be hurt, it would’ve happened by now.

Outside, the storm is shaking the trees and rattling the windows.

Stiles pulls on an old notebook but it won’t budge from the floor. He frowns and pulls harder. It finally gives, ripping up, showering paper everywhere, revealing black lines beneath.

_Finals are finally over. Stiles buys two packages of Sharpies. The second set is all black. He sets to work scribbling on the floor. Afterwards he superglues old notebooks and magazines and strategically covers the writing._

Oh. God. No.

He chooses other notebooks from the floor by memory, yanking hard, staring through the shower of paper at the strange symbols revealed. The same three, over and over and over…

_Derek scrunches his eyebrows together. “You don’t sleep. If you’re not reading, what do you do all night?”_

Well, there’s one question answered. Something inside him flinches--

_“And tell me if that book’s any good, I never got to the end.”_

\--and he fishes around near his desk for the abandoned book. The author’s bio at the back as been covered in the symbols.

Why would he risk it? If he’s writing this mess everywhere and then hiding it, why would he nudge Derek like that?

Stiles thinks of the spark in his brain, the little, active, encouraging bit of him that never went away, and wonders if maybe he’s had some control.

Control.

He hasn’t had any, for _months_ now, has he? He’s been a damn zombie, questioning but never doing. That spark was him, what was left of the real him, and it had been trying its damnedest to protect him and wake him up.

_Something black catches his eye and he frowns, rubbing his fingers together. There’s a wet streak of fresh ink on his fingertip._

Go back.

_Stiles stands in front of his mirror, tracing the symbols onto his chest. His head is shaking 'No' violently, but the rest of him is still and calm._

_And it burns. The symbols on his chest are fucking_ glowing _and--_

The symbols in the room are glowing. They’re everywhere. Neon blue streaks covering his floor, pulsing.

_\--and he throws the pen away and runs to his jacket, gasping painfully, frantic, finds his phone and manages a two-word text to Derek before sprinting to the bathroom because there’s no time, there never is, and he’s scrubbing furiously at his chest._

Stiles backs toward the door, slipping on papers but not stopping. Energy is leaving his body. He can _feel_ his body depleting.

“But I’m still awake,” he challenges. “I am done! Enough! I’m stronger now and I’m not alone!” He has people, he thinks desperately as he trips down the stairs, good people that care and will help.

“I’m not alone! I am _not_ \--” He struggles with the front door but finally heaves it open. There’s no one to hear him, he knows, but it helps to remind himself. It would be so easy for everything to just slip away…

“Leaving!” he growls at himself as a reminder, running to the jeep on unwilling legs.

Wouldn’t staying be better? You could have _more_.

\- - -

He picks the shortest route and prays there are no pedestrians this late at night. His reaction time must be non-existent. He can barely keep his foot on the pedal.

Come back. Everything can be fixed. You can be the one to fix it.

His teeth are chattering and Stiles isn’t sure, but he might be sobbing. His chest hurts. A little further, just a little further, and it _hurts_ but he’s so close, he has to believe that he can make it.

Fifth Avenue, then Sixth. He’s so close. Just past the bakery.

_Fresh squeezed orange juice does not mix well with taste of toothpaste. Stiles shudders and puts his cup away, sniffing the fresh cinnamon rolls appreciatively as he sets them in his jeep. The bakery just opened five minutes ago, but it’s worth waking up at dawn to claim some breakfast as it’s pulled from the oven._

_There’s an early training session today and Stiles wants to get there before the others, have breakfast out and waiting when they arrive._

_And yeah, okay, maybe he wants some alone time with Derek, too, has taken the time to shower and brush his teeth and choose clothes that are equal parts “dress to impress” and “I can run through the woods all day,” because Derek is worth the effort._

_Derek, who will eventually be hot and sweaty like the rest of them and probably manage to lose his shirt at some point, and really, who can complain?_

_“Oof.” Oops. “Sorry about that.” The other guy is already waving it off and walking away, didn’t even look in his direction. “Not a morning person, I take it?” Stiles rolls his eyes and stoops down to pick up his paper napkins. The last one has blown under the guy’s car and Stiles stretches to reach it before the wind pushes it any further. No luck. Stiles grumbles, because it’s only March and the ground is freezing this morning, and crawls under the car to retrieve his wayward napkin._

_He snatches it with a small sound of triumph and is wiggling back out when something strange catches his eye: a small symbol written in chalk on the muffler. Not a logo or anything, and it was done recently._

_Back in the jeep, Stiles opens the bakery box and swipes his finger through the warm icing. He sits and stares thoughtfully at the car in front of him while sucking his finger clean._

_Sucking should not remind him of Derek, but it does. Blame his hormones. He checks the time and freaks a little when he realizes that if he wants one-on-one time with Derek, he needs to hurry. He scribbles the symbol down on his receipt and shoves it in his pocket to research later._

He’s here. Has possibly been here for a few minutes. Stiles shakes himself, makes himself focus, and concentrates on the painful task of moving muscles and limbs that are fighting back.

It’s still pouring outside, but the noise and feel of raindrops is good, it keeps him focused. This is happening, he reminds himself, trudging forward, this is real.

He reaches the door, feeling like he’s run a marathon, and tries the handle. Locked. He whimpers but doesn’t give in. The lights are on. Someone must be here.

Making a fist is hard, pounding against the glass is worse, and it hurts, like all his nerve endings are firing at once. He shrieks a little but doesn’t stop, pounds harder and harder, because someone has to be there, he doesn’t have another drive in him, he cannot do this alone.

The door swings open and Deaton is startled by Stiles collapsing at his feet.

Hot and cold and shutting down. He can’t stop now. Deaton tries to help him up but they’re both slipping in rainwater and mud and Stiles’ body won’t cooperate.

Deaton finally stops trying and simply drags Stiles inside, shutting the door behind them and kneeling next to the shivering boy.

“Stiles? What’s happened?”

“I’m--” Ice is stabbing his throat. He clenches his jaw and stares hard at Deaton, tries to focus. His mouth will barely move.

“I… need… help… _please_ …”

 


	4. I will not fall

“How long has he been like this?”

“Half an hour. You were my first call.”

“His dad?”

“It seems prudent to wait until we know more. It’s my understanding that his father is unaware of his son’s ‘associations.’”

Derek grunts in agreement.

\- - -

He’s cold. He hurts.

A warm hand rests on his neck. The pain seeps out of him. A thumb rubs soothing circles.

He fades away.

\- - -

“How long?” Derek demands.

“I told you, I don’t know!” Scott is angry.

“You’re his best friend. How could you miss this? How could you let it get this bad?”

“So did you! Don’t put this all on me!”

Stiles whimpers. Everyone is quiet.

\- - -

“…Nah, nothing like that.” Boyd. His voice sounds funny and far away. “Looks like he’s been crashing on the couch, but everything else looks normal.” The sound of footsteps and a door opening. “His bedroom is a war zone, though. Papers everywhere… And there’s a smell, like electricity? I’m not sure…”

Stiles feels himself floating up, close to consciousness.

“You don’t smell anything else? Anyone that doesn’t belong?”

“It’s the usual suspects. Stiles, his dad. Scott and Isaac and the rest of us… You. Even Lydia.”

“Alright. You can go home. We’ll handle it from here.”

Stiles wants to swim back into the darkness. This sleep feels different. It’s been so long.

The warm hand is on his neck again and then trailing down his back, rubbing up and down. Stiles rests.

\- - -

“Stiles.”

“…Hey, Stiles, it’s time to get up.”

“Stiles, you’re late!”

“Gah!” Stiles jumps up and out of bed - only no, he’s somewhere else, and currently inhaling a rug. “Blech!” He sits up and takes in his surroundings. Deaton’s. He’s still at Deaton’s--

Try not to think about it.

\--and Scott is standing next to him, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, man. You weren’t waking up.”

“I was _sleeping_ ,” Stiles says mournfully. “You have no idea.” He feels someone else and looks over to see Derek standing in the doorway, face carefully blank, staring at him. Not even blinking.

“Deaton’s in his office.” Derek’s voice is level. He’s still not blinking. “You up for answering some questions?”

“Um…” The honest answer won’t help. Stiles came here to fix things. Now that he’s rested a little, talk actually seems possible. “Okay,” he shrugs. “Yeah.”

Scott starts to follow them but Derek stops him. Scott frowns and checks with Stiles, and Stiles manages a little nod and keeps walking.

“I don’t like this,” Scott hisses behind him. “I should be there.”

“I don’t think any of us are going to be happy tonight,” Derek reprimands, “so deal with it.”

“I should--”

“No. If he asks for you, but no sooner. Stay put, Scott, I mean it.” Stiles almost snickers. Bet Derek wishes he could use his Alpha whammy on Scott at times like this.

It feels like he’s getting walked to the principal’s office, and there’s certainly guilt swirling in his stomach with other uncertain emotions, but Derek is with him, and Derek isn’t talking because Derek never does, but it’s reassuring to have him near.

It feels like progress.

Derek knocks on the open door and steps back. Deaton looks up from an old book and smiles in welcome. “Stiles. Feeling better?”

Stiles frowns and fidgets. He looks to Derek for direction.

“Deaton wants to talk to you alone first.” Derek doesn’t sound happy about it. “But it’s whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I’m…” Stiles clears his throat and tries again. “Stay close?” He sounds needy. He doesn’t care.

If Derek notices, he doesn’t show it. He just nods. “I’ll be right here.” Deaton frowns and Derek actually rolls his eyes. “Jesus, I’m not going to eavesdrop.” Stiles laughs, and it feels a little shaky but it’s nice. Derek gives him a put-upon look but he’s obviously faking it. Stiles smiles and walks past him.

Derek’s hand on his shoulder slows him down. It feels familiar. “You’re sure?”

“I think so.”

“Just call my name if you need anything.”

“Yes, Derek, thank you.” Deaton sounds like he wants to roll his eyes. Stiles wonders if he misses dealing with people his own age. “We’ll be fine. Shut the door, please. Stiles, have a seat.”

Stiles sits and looks around. It looks like a normal office. Probably wouldn’t do to have occult stuff around when the daytime customers come in.

Deaton closes his book and gives Stiles a discerning look. Stiles is glad one of them seems to know what’s going on. It’s all he can do keep sane. Now that he’s awake, everything is coming back, and it’s easier to ignore than before but Stiles doesn’t want to make himself numb. Four months is enough, thanks.

“What time is it?” Stiles asks suddenly. The window above Deaton’s head shows night sky but that doesn’t tell him much. His dad…

“Nearly four a.m. You’ve been asleep for five hours.”

Stiles squirms. “I’m just-- There’s still-- It’s--” He sighs, tries again. “Sorry. My dad. He’ll be home in four hours. There’s… There’s a lot I need to tell you. I’m not sure where to begin.”

“You were unwell when you showed up on my door, Stiles. We were very concerned. But based on your behavior the past few months, I think I already know some of what you want to tell me. Now, it’s obvious you‘re still tired, so I’ve prepared a list of questions to start us out. You answer as best you can, and we’ll take it from there. Okay?”

His muscles ease a bit. Questions. Yes. He can speak now, nothing is holding him back. He’s tired but he will do his best.

“Alright, first question. Stiles, how long have you been experimenting with magic?”

What. The. Fuck. “I’m, I’m sorry. You think I did this to _myself_?!” Was it too soon to call for Derek?

“Stiles--”

“No. Don’t. Just--  You do not know how hard it was to get here, okay? And you don’t even know what’s happened, and you’re already blaming me for it? Screw that! I am falling apart, why would I want that?!”

“I’m sure this isn’t what you intended. People begin with magic for a number of reasons, and the consequences are often not what they anticipated.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude. Listen to the words coming out of my mouth: I. Did. Not. Do. This. I have seen enough movies to know better, okay? Messing around with magic is just dumb, and my life is enough of a cautionary tale already!” He huffs.

“Stiles, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth. No one is going to judge you. To be honest, I’ve been expecting this for some time.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s actually quite common. The human members of a werewolf pack often feel that they need to compensate for their weaknesses. Magic can feel like a natural choice.”

“Natural? Um, no. And if humanity wasn‘t enough for me, I could‘ve done something about it.”

“I… wasn’t aware Derek had offered you the bite.”

Stiles averts his eyes.

“I see. May I ask who?”

“Peter.”

“Peter Hale. Derek’s uncle offered to bite you? And you declined?”

“Obviously. If I ever agree, it will be under way different circumstances. Peter was evil back then, okay? Not at all tempting. He’s doing better these days, though,” Stiles adds fondly.

“Does Derek know about this?”

“God, no!” Stiles glances nervously towards the door, but Derek hasn’t come barreling in demanding answers yet, so he must be keeping his promise to turn his super hearing off. “And I don’t plan to. We‘re not telling Derek, okay?”

“That seems wise.”

“Duh.”

“Back to the matter at hand. You claim you’re not using magic--”

“Because it’s true.”

“--but Boyd used his phone to send us photographs from your room.” Deaton holds up printed pictures of Stiles’ room, a few close-ups of those three symbols. Stiles’ chest felt tight. “He almost missed them. But then they started glowing as he left. Made them difficult to ignore.”

Stiles remember hearing Boyd on speakerphone. He was regaining consciousness as Derek told Boyd to leave. Maybe the symbols had sensed him waking up.

Could symbols sense things?

“I just found them last night,” Stiles confessed. “But I’ve been drawing them for awhile.”

“So you have been--”

“No. Jeez. Let me finish, okay? I’ve been doing this stuff, drawing on my body an-and sometimes I’ll even have conversations without realizing it and… Just all this stuff. I’m doing it but I don’t remember doing it. Once I sorta figured out what was going on, that’s when I started to remember.” Stiles points at the photos. “But that garbage? Not me. No. I don’t even know what it means, so how can I be the one doing it?”

“Your body is marked?” Stiles hates how concerned Deaton looks.

“Not now. I washed it off. It only happened the one time and I showered right after. Sometimes I would snap out of it, for a few minutes, and try to do something. I guess whatever it is just figured it wasn’t necessary.”

“Stiles, if what you’re saying is true--”

“It _is_. Ooh, oh, what if it’s a curse? Could I be cursed? Are curses real? Because so many things in my life would make sense if curses are real.”

“Stiles!”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know. Focus. It’s just… I’ve been through a lot, okay? And now I’m with someone that can fix it, and I just want it over already.”

Deaton opens the book he was reading earlier and holds it up for Stiles to see. “Stiles, do you recognize these sigils?”

Stiles squints. It’s like the pages are underwater. He bites his cheek and looks again. “Yeah. I think so. Just… gimme a second.” The top one is similar to the drawing on Connell’s car. He’s seen the others, but where? He shuts his eyes and reluctantly opens the floodgate of his memories. He grips the chair to ground himself. Prays that Derek isn’t listening, because his pulse is about to skyrocket…

… _“Ha! Got it!” Stiles starts printing out everything the webpage has to offer. “Damn, this is gonna use all my ink. How many are there?”…_

Oh, crap. Not surprising. But _really_?

“I think,” Stiles mumbles, “I think you might be right. I didn’t know what they were, but I printed out pages of the stuff.”

“Did you read anything aloud?”

“Oh, man, like a spell, right? I don’t, I mean, I don’t remember saying anything, but there was a lot to print and I was bored, and, and yeah, yep, that’s the kind of stupid thing I would do. But how does that even count? Don’t you have to know what you’re doing or at least _saying_ for this stuff to work?”

“Some people are naturally inclined toward magic. I can certainly see the potential in you.”

“Are you telling me that I’m a witch? Because I cannot deal with being a witch right now.” Stiles didn’t feel well, but more than anything he just wanted to pout. Why him? Why always him?

“No. And witch is a very generalized term, you should be careful how you use it. For now, be careful what you do online and what you recite. We can work through the rest later.”

“I need a second,” Stiles blanched. “Can we just--”

“Stiles?”

“I did this.” The words felt weird on his tongue. This was not the outcome he was expecting. “I mean, we keep dealing with all these crappy people and bloodthirsty monsters and I was just so sure… But I did this to myself. That’s what you’re telling me.”

“It’s not as strange as you seem to think.”

“Humiliating, is what I think. And terrifying. And fucking typical, you have no idea.”

“You had no reason to believe that a few circles and lines could do such damage.” He pointed to photographs. “Do you know what these mean?”

“Have I not made it clear that I know nothing? My brain may be on overload but _I know nothing_.”

“The first two sigils are used to divine the future. The third is for binding. Someone trained to direct their visions would know how to use these sigils, and how to control the outcome. Since your use was accidental, my guess is that the magic responded to your thoughts and feelings, feeding on your strongest emotions.” Stiles remembers the two nights he hadn’t been alone, and how calm he had been after. “And with a binding spell, the harder you tried to pull away, the tighter it would cling to you.”

“But it can be fixed? Please say yes.”

“Yes. Sorting your room will be the easy part. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Why? My body’s clean. Take care of my room and everything should be fine. There’s nothing left.”

“When used improperly, magic is dangerous. It can be unreliable, aggressive, and extremely addictive.” Deaton straightens his desk while giving Stiles a knowing look. “That’s why I asked to speak to you alone. It can be difficult to admit your faults in front of friends. And if you’re struggling with the idea of giving up these dreams, I need to know.”

“No. Not even a little. Have I not made that clear? I’m here to stop this! I definitely do not want more.”

“You may,” Deaton warns. “When you start to lose something that made you feel powerful, you may surprise yourself.”

“Again, no.” Stiles was never so sure of anything in his life.

“Well, we can discuss this more later, if you like. But you mentioned that your father would be home soon, so we should move on.”

“We should talk about Connell next.”

“Who’s Connell?”

“My personal hell for the past four months.” Stiles isn’t eager to relive any of this, but considering he was carrying a loaded gun only hours ago, there isn’t a choice. He explains what he remembers to Deaton as best he can, struggling to keep the timeline straight in his head. To his credit, Deaton handles the almost-murder with acceptance and only shows concern when Argent is mentioned.

“If Mr. Argent is going after Connell, I should speak to him,” Deaton explains. “I doubt he’s expecting magic, and if Connell has a protection sigil on his car, he’s probably prepared to use more.”

“How did I not think of that? I don’t want him getting hurt because of me!”

“Mr. Argent has been hunting werewolves for decades,” Deaton reminds him. “He can handle himself.”

“I guess.” This would be easier if Derek was with him. He could at least hold his hand and tell him to stop squirming. “Are we done? With the personal stuff, I mean? I appreciate you trying to respect my privacy, but, um…”

“Would you like to see your friends?”

“Yes, please.”

Deaton nods his agreement. “We need to discuss what to do next, anyhow. It involves them.” He leads Stiles to the door and isn’t surprised to find Derek hovering on the other side.

“Derek, will you take Stiles back to Scott? I need to get some supplies and then I’ll catch up.” He disappears down the hallway.

“How are you?” Derek asks in a low voice.

“Better,” he admits. “Still tired. I wish I could just sleep for a week. And have all of this dealt with when I wake up.”

“We’re going to fix it, Stiles. We have your back. You know that, right?” Derek sounds unsure.

Stiles steps closer and bumps their shoulders to reassure him. “I do. I think I always did. I remember trying to tell you, a few times, and I just couldn’t. And I let my crappy self-esteem get in the way.” He shrugs. “If I couldn’t see what was wrong with me, I can’t really expect any more of you.”

“Yes you should,” Derek says firmly. “I noticed that something was wrong. We all did. None of us pushed when we should have.” He stops Stiles and puts his hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you. I’m sorry I didn’t see what was really happening.”

Oh, wow. Stiles has never seen this side of Derek outside of his dreams. He has to take a minute to steady himself before he clears his throat and says, “Derek, it’s okay now. Deaton’s going to help me and I get the feeling you’re on babysitting duty for awhile. So, you’re right. We are going to fix it. I’ll be fine.”

Stiles decides to save them both from embarrassing emotions that neither can handle at the moment. He resumes walking and Derek falls into step behind him.

\- - -

“It smells.” Scott covers his nose with his shirt. “Like, _bad_. What is it?”

“Herbs, mostly. Spring water.” Deaton is obviously leaving a few ingredients out. Stiles is fine with not knowing. The brown gunk is already in spray bottles for the guys to ‘clean’ Stiles’ room with, and he figures that ignorance is bliss.

“It’s not just me, right?” Scott can’t seem to let it go. Derek rolls his eyes but even his nose is twitching. “I mean, it isn’t a werewolf thing, I’m pretty Stiles’ dad is gonna notice it too.”

Deaton holds up a bottle of air freshener. “Use this after. Liberally. And try to keep your door shut for a few days, just in case.”

“Got it. What next?”

“We need to keep some distance between you and your bedroom until the magic has dissipated. Do you have a safe place to stay? Preferably with someone who  knows what’s going on.”

“My place, totally,” Scott smiles. “My mom will be cool with it. We can have Isaac over, too.”

“Yes, I’m sure Isaac will be ecstatic to help babysit the nutjob.”

“Of course he will,” Scott insists, not really hearing himself. Derek scowls.

\- - -

The drive to Stiles’ house is quiet. Stiles is riding with Derek while Scott follows in Stiles’ jeep. Under normal circumstances, Stiles would be savoring every second in the Camaro and loving some private time with Derek. And maybe freaking at Scott driving. But there’s so much to consider and he’s still exhausted.

“You can sleep until we get there,” Derek offers, like he’s reading his mind.

“Nah, it’s only a few minutes. Not worth it.”

“We can talk.” He even sounds like he means it. There was a time when Derek would choose death over conversation. How things change.

“I like the quiet. You’re good at it,” Stiles grins.

“Ha ha.”

He stares out the window and tries not to sound nervous. “But, um, some other time?”

Derek relaxes. “Yeah.”

Reassured, Stiles watches the trees and lampposts go by. He thinks about everything Deaton has told him and what it means. He’s overwhelmed more than anything. It’s hard to keep his brain settled. But there’s also guilt and anxiety and doubt. And much as he loathes to admit it, now that Stiles has the facts, there is a small part of him that wants more. If no one knows about people like Connell and the mystery Alpha, how can the pack prepare? They can’t spend the rest of their lives living day to day. Stiles is already worn out and they’re not even done with high school.

Giving the magic up, though… Stiles knows it needs to be done. However necessary it may feel, it’s dangerous and uncomfortable. And they can’t afford any setbacks because Stiles is having second thoughts. Cleaning this up is going to be hard enough as it is.

“Magic is like radiation,” Deaton had warned them earlier. “Use the same spell long enough and it begins to spread. It seeps into walls. It builds up in your bloodstream. It can affect those around you.”

“It’s a lot,” Stiles admits in a whisper, still staring outside. It’s easier here, with Derek in his car and no one else. He could live in here, really. It’s still dark and only the shine of headlights behind them reminds Stiles of the outside world.

“We can handle it.”

“I’m sorry for all this.” Stiles thinks he’s blushing. And why not? It’s embarrassing. He’s glad that Connell will be stopped, but the rest is just stupid. Only he could start a magical meltdown by printing some stuff off the internet.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” And Derek means it. Insane stuff like this happens to them _all the time_. The consequences are just worse this time, that’s all.

\- - -

“It’s actually not as bad as I was expecting.” Isaac is determined to be optimistic. It’s not even eight yet; this is _not_ how he planned to spend his morning.

Stiles raises an eyebrow as he continues stuffing his garbage bag. “Do I want to know?”

“Oh, ya know,” Isaac grins, “pentagrams, animal sacrifices, virgin offerings.”

“Either of you makes a virgin joke and I will _snap_ ,” Stiles warns, only half-joking. It was so nice in Derek’s car. Why did he ever get out?

“The smell is weird.” Scott wrinkles his nose.

“Enough about the spritz! It’s not even in here yet, I left it in the bathroom!”

“No. I mean, that stuff reeks, but I meant the magic stuff. Boyd was right. It is like electricity. It’s weird.”

“Try having it in your brain, buddy. Not pleasant.” Stiles is digging under his bed, producing armfuls of paper, ignoring the tell-tale tingle whenever he touches something with the sigils scribbled on it. He isn't sure what he was expecting, but so far clearing out his room has been easy. And quick, thanks to Scott and Isaac.

“Let’s get Chinese for lunch,” he offers. “My treat.”

“And Assassin’s Creed this afternoon?” Scott asks hopefully, tying his last garbage bag.

“I am all for violence of the fictional nature.” He ducks his head down to peek under the bed. Almost done. Just some paper wedged between the wall and the bed, and then he’s done. He sticks his tongue out in concentration as he reaches out.

“And pizza for dinner,” Isaac adds, feeling gluttonous, “and Halo all night!”

“And pancakes for breakfast,” Stiles sighs happily. “It’s a deal. A very unhealthy deal, but we’re young!” One sheet won’t let go. Stiles grumbles to himself, wonders if he started gluing things to the walls as well. He grabs at it again, wiggling his fingers.

And then whole page starts glowing.

Stiles scrambles out and pushes the guys against the wall. “Um, stay. Okay? I’m gonna…” What, exactly? “Burn it? With the matches I don’t own, um. Scott! Propane torch! Outside by the barbecue!” Scott nods and rushes off.

“What’s going on?” Isaac asks.

“There’s still a page down there and it’s, I dunno, different? Somehow? Burning will fix it, I’m pretty sure. Fire fixes everything!”

“Just so you know, that is never an okay sentence during an emergency.” Isaac is starting to look a little panicked, and his face is twitching. Stiles wonders what his wolfy sense are picking up. “How are you going to burn it if it’s under the bed?”

“I’m not.” He glowers at the bed. “Have I mentioned how much I’m over this? ‘Cause I really am.” He dives back under the bed.

The paper is still glowing. And either it’s vibrating or Stiles’ hands are trembling. Possibly both.

“Just… let… go!” Unpleasant jolts are trailing up his fingers but the paper finally releases and Stiles holds it tight as he crawls out. He holds it up for Isaac to see. “Imagine this, but everywhere! It was like a rave in here!”

Stiles frowns at the paper. Usually just the sigils glowed, not the whole page. And this is brighter. He tries to read the writing.

_“Ha! Got it!” Stiles starts printing out everything the webpage has to offer. “Damn, this is gonna use all my ink. How many are there?” He reads through some as the pages keep coming, occasionally tracing the symbols with his fingers and mouthing the words beneath them._

Right. The original copy. That explains the glowing.

_The guide is twenty pages. It’s too late to read through it all now. He’ll save it until morning. He’s looking around for a paperclip when his dad knocks on the door._

_“Son, you awake?”_

_Crap. Stiles shoves it under his bed and pulls down the blanket to hide it._

And that explains how his bed became a hellmouth. Perfect. Sleeping right above that stuff, Stiles figures he probably deserves whatever he gets.

And you could have more.

“Um, Stiles?” Isaac is stepping closer, looking very confused.

Don’t you want more?

Something’s wrong. It feels different. And the page is _definitely_ vibrating now.

Scott is back and he’s holding the torch out like a lifeline but he shares a bewildered look with Isaac. “Stiles?”

You could save them all.

“Stiles!” He snaps out of it, looks over at them, tries to remember why they’re here. “Dude, we can hear your voice in our heads!”

“My-- What?” His head is getting fuzzy. He steps away from them.

“You just said, ‘You could save them all.’ _In our heads_.” Scott clearly wants to do the right thing but is worried he’ll make things worse.

“Just burn it!” Isaac shouts, thrashing his head. There’s something in the air and it _hurts_.

No. Stay.

Stiles frowns and looks at Scott, because the voice is changing and he knows that voice.

“Stay.”

It’s not in their heads now. It’s an actual voice, ringing in the air, baiting, calling to Stiles.

“Stay. You want more.”

And Stiles knows that it isn’t real, it’s just the magic reacting, reading his feelings and memories just like Deaton explained.

“You could be so much more.”

Stiles knows that those words are his own, manipulated. Twisted and turned upside-down.

“You’re useless without it.”

Stiles understands. But that voice--

“You are nothing without it.”

\--that voice is his mother’s.

Stiles chokes back a cry.

“Everyone will leave you.”

And nobody uses his mother.

Stiles lunges forward and grabs the torch.

“Want more need more don’t go stay stay stay staystaySTAYSTAYSTAY”

He crumbles the paper into a ball, his fingers stinging, and lights it on fire.

There is no air. They cannot see. Blue electric film covers everything.

Stiles throws it into the trash can with a sound of disgust.

There are whispers, and crackles, then nothing. Stiles shivers. Isaac rubs his ears. Scott shakes his head like a wet puppy.

They wait until the paper is ash, then carefully carry the trash can to the bathroom and flush the remnants away.

“Right,” Stiles says, determined. “Next step.”

He hands out the spray bottles Deaton gave them, along with the other supplies: sandpaper, wood stain, and air freshener. Once each mark has been taken off with the sandpaper, Scott or Isaac sniffs the floor to be sure all the ink is really gone. They spray the bare wood with Deaton’s concoction and let it dry before applying the wood stain. Once everything’s dry they’re hoping the sheriff won’t notice the difference.

Deaton’s stuff is terrible, Stiles has to admit, but as he uses it on the walls and windows just to be safe, something settles inside of him. Scott and Isaac seem more relaxed, too.

Still, thank god for air freshener.

“More,” Scott whines, shaking his bottle.

“Ugh, no, there are enough chemicals in the air. More isn’t going to help.”

“It probably wouldn’t hurt,” Isaac admits with a melodramatic sweep of his can. “Be grateful you cannot smell what we smell.”

Stiles lets them use every last drop, then leaves his window wide open and drags two fans upstairs and aims them at the walls.

They’re tired and relieved and a little light-headed as they trample down the stairs, hungry and ready for a little normalcy, as they meet Stiles’ dad returning from work.

He seems pleased to see Scott and Isaac. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Stay for lunch.”

“Thanks, but I promised them egg rolls. Oh, hey, and we’re gonna stay at Scott’s tonight.”

“That’s great!” The sheriff actually looks a little relieved. Stiles feels guilt for the stress he‘s put him through. And can‘t actually explain, yet again. “You boys have fun.”

They all get into Stiles’ jeep and head toward the center of town.

“Are you sure you want to leave your window open? What if it rains?” Scott glances out the window. “The weather’s been crazy lately.”

“Um, nah,” Stiles fidgets. “It’s clear skies. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Deaton had pulled him aside while Derek and Scott pulled the vehicles up to the door. “Before I forget, would you happen to recognize this one as well?” He held up a photocopy of a sigil.

“Uh, yeah, I think so. It was one of the first on the website. God, why? What awful thing does that do?”

“Oh, no, nothing to worry about,” Deaton reassured him. “It explains the strange correlation I’ve noticed between your mood and the weather.” Oops. “It should wear off like the others.”

\- - -

Stiles stares at the ceiling and listens to the nighttime noises of the McCall household. They're soothing. He spent so many nights here as a kid that it's like a second home.

“You awake?”

“Yeah.” Isaac turns at the sound of their voices but doesn’t wake up.

“How do you feel?”

“Better. Not a hundred percent yet, but I’m getting there.”

“Good.”

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to sleep, confident that tonight will actually be a good night, but Scott clearly has more to say. In fact, it’s the same look Scott has been trying to hide since Deaton gave him and Derek the abbreviated explanation of events. Derek had followed along, nodding grimly and asking practical questions. Scott had listed wide-eyed, splitting his time between horrified and awestruck.

Stiles sighs. “Just ask, already.”

“…I shouldn’t. I know this is serious.”

“I’m giving you permission. You’ll drive us both crazy, otherwise.”

“Alright,” Scott says eagerly, sitting up. “So, you saw the future.”

“Several of them.”

“What was I like? Was I a badass?”

Stiles considers. Decides not to mention the murders and mercy killings, particularly of best friends. Sticks to the highlights. “You once used a spork to blind a guy. Does that count?”

Scott sounds pleased. “Okay, okay--”

“Here it comes.”

“You know I have to.”

“I would, in your position,” Stiles nods sagely. “Go ahead.”

“Vampires. Real or not?”

“None that I saw. Ghouls are real, though. And they are _nasty_. You see one, you run. Killing a ghoul is more of a team sport.”

“That is so cool. And probably very useful to know.”

Scott settles down eventually but now Stiles is wide awake. The memories aren’t alive like they used to be. He has control now. But they still leave him tired and anxious. And before…

He thinks of how miserable he was, constantly. And how some of that is still with him. The feelings are lingering like a bad taste in his mouth.

In his dreams, he was that Stiles. Older, sadder, angrier, sometimes dangerous, sometimes broken. Almost always making decisions that Stiles can’t fathom, and not even hesitating. And every time he woke up, Stiles kept some of that with him.

Will that go away too?

He feels old and worn. What’s inside doesn’t match what he sees in the mirror. He knows he should learn what he can from this mess, but Stiles wants none of it. Not the part where he peeks in his own brain and sees what could be. He considers the older versions of himself and thinks, I don’t want this. I don’t want to think this way, I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to know what I know.

This is not the man I want to be.

\- - -

Stiles dreams that he’s sliding through an avalanche on a mattress. It’s so dumb but he could weep with relief.

The shaking is real, he realizes, and opens his bleary eyes to see Scott trying to wake him.

“Good morning,” he croaks, blinking at the sunlight. Ugh. Light. Go away.

“Afternoon,” Scott corrects. “It’s almost two.”

“Mmm.” More please. “Sleeeeep.”

“Derek called.” And he’s up.

“Is he coming over?” Do I have time to change so I don’t reek of panic and wood stain?

“Don’t know, Isaac’s still talking to him.”

Stiles manages a nod and glances forlornly at his pillow before heaving himself out of bed. Time to face the world.

“I, um, vaguely recall pancakes.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles frowns. “Have I taught you nothing? Pancakes matter, always. I will get you pancakes. Eventually.”

Isaac walks in and hands his phone to Stiles.

“Hello?”

“Hi. How’d you sleep?”

“Great. And for hours. Scott’s drool didn’t bother me at all.” A pillow smacks the back of his head. “These are violent people you’ve left me with, Derek. What were you thinking?” Another smack, from the other side. Clearly Scott is becoming a bad influence for Isaac.

Derek sounds hesitant. “And how’s… everything else?”

“So much better. Yesterday went well. My bedroom is a toxic wasteland of smells, but it’s worth it.”

“Yeah, I noticed. It’s a little better this morning. Give it another day.”

“Wait, were you there?” Stiles wants to curl around the phone and say a lot of things he probably shouldn’t. Stiles wishes there weren’t werewolf ears listening, at least.

“You were messing with magic, Stiles, someone had to keep an eye out. No one saw me.”

“That’s really-- Um, thanks. It took us hours to do, so sorry for that, but thank you for waiting. And watching.”

Derek clears his throat. “Anyhow, I’m calling about the move.”

“Already?”

There’s hesitation. “Is that okay? We can wait.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m good to go. I mean, I have to talk to my dad--” Which is going to be so awkward. “--but I packed a bag before we left, so I’m fine. My clothes don’t even smell like Deaton’s swamp spritz!” Scott’s nose twitches at the memory. “Do _you_ want me to wait? You guys just got started on the house, it won’t be easy having another roommate around.”

“Actually, it will be easy. I’m making you Peter’s official watcher.”

“That’s touching, really.”

“So… Should I pick you up? I’m sure your dad will have questions for me.”

Yikes. He’d been so busy planning his own chat with dad that he hadn’t considered the aftermath. “No. No, I don’t think so. I’ll drive out to your house this afternoon. And if my dad has any questions, he can just... call you? Is that okay?”

“Whatever works. I’ll see you soon.”

“Thanks.”

“Bye.”

Stiles hands the phone back to Isaac and sees Scott’s amazed look. “What?”

“He’s so _nice_ to you.”

“Life-threatening tragedy. It won’t last.”

“Milk it for all you can,” Scott advises.

\- - -

When Deaton had told him that magic took time to dissipate, Stiles hadn’t thought much about it. He’d crash at Scott’s, which was common during the summer anyhow, and no harm done. But Deaton had raised an eyebrow in surprise and Stiles had thought, Nothing good is gonna come from this.

He felt his shoulders sagging. “How long are we talking?”

“Two to three weeks.”

“Two what now? No! I know it’s summer and all, but even my workaholic father is going to notice his son bailing for _weeks_!”

“You can’t risk it, Stiles. Your room and your body have been soaking in that spell for four months. It’s going to take time.”

“And where am I supposed to go?”

“My house,” Derek said immediately. The room was quiet as the other three looked at him, but if Derek felt their scrutiny he didn’t show it. “We’re isolated, private. In case you have any… setbacks. And being surrounded by my pack means that we can look out for you. If there’s a problem, we’ll sense it.” He eyed Stiles. “What do you think?”

“Almost a month. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said resolutely. “It makes sense.”

“But you just started renovations.”

Derek flinched, barely. Stiles doubted the others noticed. “I know it’s not what you’re used to. But the roof is done. And everything’s safe. We can-- I’ll clear out one of the rooms, get it ready for you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Thanks. But that’s not what I meant. This renovation is a big deal. And let’s be honest, I’m a spazz. Me living on a construction site? Do you not see the headaches this will cause?”

“If there’s a problem, we’ll stop. Or you can leave. But I think we should try.”

\- - -

So here he was, searching the house for his dad, not really sure how to go through with this. He hates bailing on his dad, but he knows it’s the safest option. And three weeks with Derek is too tempting to pass up.

Stiles finds him in the laundry room.

“How do we go through so many towels? I didn’t know we _owned_ this many towels.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Because we both hate folding them. So they don’t get washed until we run out.”

“Sounds about right,” he agrees cheerfully. “How was your sleepover at Scott’s?”

“Fine. But actually, we need to talk about that. Now, please? It’s important.”

He leads them to the kitchen table and starts to fidget instead of talking. His dad tries to give him time but eventually stills him with a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up?”

Deep breath. “Isaac has moved in with Derek Hale. And it’s going really well. Only the house is a mess so they’re renovating all summer? And they’re starting with all the simple stuff they can do themselves, to save money, and Isaac asked if I could stay for a few weeks. Hang out. Help out. Guy stuff. Derek’s cool with it if you are. I dunno, we’ll probably, like, barbecue and stuff.”

His dad looks confused. And suspicious. Stiles totally deserves that. “You want to stay at the Hale house.”

“It has a roof now,” Stiles adds hopefully.

His dad frowns. “Stiles, where is this coming from? Weeks. With Derek Hale. And after the past few months…” He’s obviously going to say no. He’s just trying to find the right words. Stiles prepared for an entire conversation, he isn’t sure how to handle an immediate refusal.

So, for once, he opts for the truth. “Dad?” He lets himself sound tired, lets his dad see some of what he’s been keeping hidden. “I need this.”

He’s still frowning. “Stiles.”

“Dad, I think it will help.” And his dad, wonderful, amazing, better-than-Stiles-deserves person that he is, he gets it.

There are conditions. Stiles will call every night. The sheriff will be driving out to check on him. This will not go on for the entire summer.

Stiles is bursting with love and gratitude and he hopes that he expresses that with his smile, his hug, his thank you.

He’s in the jeep and ready to drive off when his dad stops him and hands him a pair of work gloves.

“Take care of yourself, son. Be careful.” Stiles beams and tries to hug him through the open window.

\- - -

His new room isn’t much. There’s a blind covering the window and a new mattress in the corner with new sheets and a comforter.

“Is this okay?” Derek asks, conscious of the bare walls. “I can kick Peter out of his room.”

Stiles snickers. “That would be fun to see, actually. But no. This is fine. And I really appreciate you letting me stay here.”

Derek waves it off. “Stop thanking me. Get settled in and come down when you’re ready.” He hesitates at the door. “And, welcome.” A small, awkward smile and he disappears.

\- - -

The entire pack is there tonight. They eat too much and talk too much and Stiles barely has time to think the entire night. It feels fantastic.

By midnight everyone is asleep and the only ones left in the living room are Stiles and Derek. Stiles is determined to see the end of Star Wars, despite seeing it countless times already, and Derek is comfortable right where he is. Sharing a couch with Derek is easily the highlight of his day, and Stiles considers asking for the next DVD to buy himself another two hours of close proximity. But he’s asleep before the credits roll.

\- - -

_Stiles steps closer, and he’s not hesitating now._

_“Look, I don’t_ care _anymore. I want you. I know that you want me. I’m tired of waiting for the next terrible thing to happen. So let’s try. Let’s see what happens.”_

_Derek knows he has to say no, but he can’t find the words. He just frowns and looks away._

_But Stiles isn’t buying it this time. He closes the distance between them and presses his hand to Derek’s neck and rubs gently. “Let’s just try,” he pleads softly. “That’s all I’m asking.”_

_Derek steps out of his grasp…_

Derek’s eyes fly open and it takes a moment to recognize the couch beneath him, the moonlight in the window, and the soft even breathing at his side.

Stiles.

Stiles, whose hand is resting casually on his chest.

Stiles, who just shared one of his dreams without knowing it.

 


	5. I will not fade

Stiles sleeps for two days.

\- - -

Gentle shaking wakes him. Isaac is standing next to the bed with a plate of scrambled eggs and fruit. “Breakfast.”

Stiles accepts the plate silently and eats half of it. He gives Isaac his honeydew slice and the two stare out the window as they eat in companionable silence.

When he’s done he gives the plate back to Isaac with whispered thanks and lies down again. He’s asleep before the door closes.

\- - -

When Stiles wakes it’s dark and crickets are chirping outside. He moves around until he finds a cool spot on the sheets and considers sleeping some more, but it feels good to be awake and thinking. He stares at the ceiling instead, straining to hear the others but only getting more crickets. He wonders how many stayed tonight.

He doesn’t do much during the day, is content to keep to his room and the bathroom across the hall. The others give him his space.

His first night at the Hale house was spent on the couch. He woke up the next morning tucked under an afghan and drooling on the upholstery. He felt the same as the day before but appreciated a night of uninterrupted sleep. The next night, however, when he had gone up to the room Derek had prepared for him, Stiles had been surprised by the relief and peace that had filled him. He fell asleep with ease and slept for two days.

In so many of his dreams the Hale house had become his home. Stiles knows he has no right to the sense of belonging he feels here, but he can’t help embracing it. He thinks that his real healing is just beginning.

\- - -

On the sixth day, Derek insists that he start coming down for meals. Someone wakes him and he stumbles downstairs to the kitchen. Breakfast is usually just one or two people, as is dinner. Lunch is a busy affair, most of the pack crammed at the table, eating and laughing and never pushing Stiles to participate. He adds a little to the conversation sometimes but for the most part he enjoys sitting back and soaking in the energy of the others. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, really, and doing nothing but sleep isn’t helping, but he sees the looks that Derek gives him and rolls his eyes and takes a few extra bites just to appease him.

\- - -

Argent calls while Stiles is sleeping and leaves a voicemail. He says that Connell has been “detained” and promises that everything is being handled. He doesn’t give details.

Stiles supposes that it really is over this time. He feels strange and restless, and ignores it by going back to sleep.

\- - -

A knock on the door wakes him. He looks out his window blearily, see the sun is barely up, and pats the floor blindly for his phone until he finds it and unplugs the charger and checks the time. 6:40am.

Stiles realizes he fell asleep after dinner. His dad has been pretty lenient so far about calling every day. Stiles knows that Scott talked to his dad, explained that he was doing fine but catching up on rest and had suggested giving him a few days of privacy. Still, he meant to call last night and resolves to do so today. He made a deal with his dad and he wants to hold up his end.

Another knock. Stiles clears his throat. “Come in?”

Derek walks in and eyes Stiles for a minute, assessing, before he steps close and nods toward the window. “The electrician will be here soon to work on the furnace. I mentioned it last night but I’m not sure you heard me.”

Stiles remembers focusing on Erica taunting Scott about Allison, and Peter taunting Derek about the master bathroom. Something about solid gold swan-shaped faucets and pink marble counters. Derek had resolutely ignored his uncle and tried to steer the discussion in the another direction but Stiles was too easily distracted to remember what was said.

“Sorry,” Stiles shrugs. “My attention span isn’t great on a good day.”

“It’s fine. You can sleep if you want, but there’s going to be a lot of noise.”

“No. I think, maybe, I might go outside today. Just for a while. Scott’s coming over.”

Derek looks like he wants to say something. He steps forward, then steps back and shrugs. “There are muffins and juice downstairs.” He starts to leave but stops and adds, “And take it easy today, okay? Your body’s been through a lot.”

Stiles opens his mouth to reply but the door is already closing and Derek is gone.

\- - -

“So, do the others think I’m completely insane?” Stiles tears the crust off his sandwich and avoids Scott’s eyes. “More than they used to, I mean.”

“No!” Scott pushes his own plate aside and scoots closer. “Why?” He lowers his voice. “Has someone said something? Because tell me who it is and I will kick their ass.”

Stiles smiles warmly and rubs his eyes. He loves Protective!Scott. “Nah. I’m fine. Just wondering. Everyone’s acting like it’s normal. And it isn’t. So I just… I dunno. Nevermind. I’m being dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” Scott insists. “They act like it’s not a big deal because you act like it isn’t. And because Derek has been threatening them with death if they screw up.”

“Really?”

Scott freezes, his eyes widening, and then he suddenly becomes fascinated with his sandwich. Stiles expects him to start whistling and twiddling his thumbs any second.

\- - -

Stiles is starting to dream again. Not much, and most of it is harmless. Singing kangaroos, Tony Stark dating Steve Rogers, an igloo made of icecream. Normal dream stuff.

Sometimes, though, darker images start to edge in on his happy thoughts. Not just memories of what he’s dreamt before, but new scenarios, too. Deaton told him that the dreams would take time to fade, but it’s an uncomfortable jolt each time. He’s not hiding from the real world, exactly, but he feels sheltered here and worries that the dreams will return full force once he steps back into Beacon Hills and his own house.

When something awful creeps in, he wakes himself and jumps out of bed. He paces the room a few times just to burn off the nervous energy and to distract himself. He’s spent most of the past ten days sleeping but it’s still easy to wear himself out. Within half an hour he’s always back in bed, drifting away.

Once or twice he thinks he hears footsteps outside his room, but no one comes in so he figures he’s imagining it.

\- - -

His dad drives out a few times during his lunch break. Stiles knows this is his way of setting a time limit, of promising to stay only as long as necessary. Stiles has missed his dad but he appreciates the gesture. With his dad comes the outside world and he is only ready for small doses.

Derek always meets them at the front door. He’s polite and even smiles, calls the sheriff ‘sir’ and shakes his hand before excusing himself to continue working. His dad admits that Derek, and the house, weren’t what he was expecting.

“Let me guess, beer pong and midnight orgies? Let’s be honest, I am not that lucky.”

He watches his dad drive off from the front porch and stays outside for a while, soaking in the summer sun and the sounds of birds and insects outside and power tools inside. It feels nice.

\- - -

_“Or I’ll snap your fingers one by one,” the Alpha sneers. The answer is still no. Stiles will never pull the trigger. Not that it matters. A few more minutes and he’ll pass out from the pain…_

Stiles jerks awake, takes in his surroundings, and groans. He’s still on the porch. And judging by the sun above him, he’s only been asleep for an hour. Grumbling, he gets up and walks inside.

“How was lunch?” Derek is standing in the hallway, brushing the sawdust from his hair.

“Fine. The usual. He keeps bringing salads from the deli. Like I’m gonna believe he’s not living on burgers and frozen waffles.” His stomach does guilty flip-flops. All of this is affecting his dad, too. It isn’t fair.

“It’s not forever,” Derek reminds him. “A few weeks of junk food aren’t the end of the world.”

“Yeah.”

Derek suddenly seems very interested in the wall behind Stiles. “Speaking of food. I was thinking, we should have a barbecue.”

Stiles tries not wince. “Tonight? Because I gotta be honest, man, lunch with my dad took all the energy I had.”

“No. This weekend. Invite your dad, and the whole pack. Scott and Lydia too, if you want.” Derek squares his shoulders and finally looks at Stiles. “What do you think?”

He doesn’t. His brain is still half-asleep. “That’s… a lot of people. You up for that? I know that you’re not big on houseguests and you’re already stuck with me 24 hours a day.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Don’t. And yes, I’ll be fine. What about you? Deaton thinks it’s time for you to start spending time with people again. I thought this would help. Ease you into it.”

“Barbecue sounds good.” Stiles offers a smile he doesn’t completely feel. “And you’re right, I gotta start socializing some time.”

“It’s for your dad, too.” Derek seems to be choosing his words very carefully. “You’ve already been here two weeks.”

Stiles knows this, has been keeping track of the days, but it’s still strange to think about. He thinks of leaving next week and his heart tightens with panic. He can’t tell if Derek notices.

“If he sees how well you’re doing, and, well, if he sees the people you spend time with, it might be easier to convince him to let you stay.” Stiles’ heart calms. Derek is telling him he can stay. Derek is planning for it. Derek is totally his hero.

“Thank you.” His smile is easier this time.

Derek almost smiles in return but it somehow turns into a frown and he just shrugs one shoulder. “We’re going to do this right. However long it takes, okay?” He clears his throat and averts his eyes and points to the basement door. “I should get back.” He walks away before Stiles can say anything.

 

**JULY**

Stiles doesn’t mean to blow up the tree.

The pack was supposed to train today but Derek had to go into town so “training” quickly devolved into shoving and chasing one another. Scott and Stiles are watching from the sidelines as Boyd and Isaac use sticks as swords to fight one another.

One minute, it’s hilarious. The next, Stiles only sees Isaac being struck down by a hunter with a steel pipe.

He’s running, shoving Boyd to the ground and screaming, “You do _not touch him_!” The others are too shocked to react.

In the same instant that Stiles’ fist makes contact with Boyd’s jaw, there’s a deafening boom behind them as a single bolt of lightning jumps down from the sky and strikes a tree. Leaves fill the air and what’s left of the tree is smoldering. Scott pulls Stiles away while Erica runs back to the house for a fire extinguisher.

Stiles is shaking. His stomach hurts. And Boyd-- Fuck, Boyd is bleeding. Stiles did that.

“I am… so sorry.” His voice is cracking. He wants to look away but he won’t let himself. He hurt Boyd. He doesn’t get to hide from that.

“Don’t sweat it,” Boyd shrugs, wiping the blood from his mouth. “It’s already healing.”

“Stiles,” Scott says in a low voice, “let’s go inside.” Isaac is standing nearby, unsure what to do.

“Don’t tell Derek,” Stiles pleads. “Please?”

“Um, not really an option,” Erica snarks as she runs up with the extinguisher. “Either we tell him what happened, or he drives home and smells smoke. Not a good idea.”

She has a point but denial sounds so much better. So does his bedroom. He can’t pummel people if he’s asleep. “Sorry again,” he mutters in Boyd’s general direction, and walks back to the house.

An hour later there’s a knock at his door and Stiles covers his head with his pillow to ignore it. The real world can go screw itself.

Another knock.

“Go away!” 

A pause, and then the door opens and shuts. Stiles presses the pillow even tighter, wonders how long he can stay like this without passing out.

“So, Isaac tells me you saved the day.” Peter. He sounds amused.

Stiles waits but Peter is obviously not going anywhere. He gives up and throws the pillow against the wall. He gives Peter a look of misery. “So glad my apocalypse-induced freakout is entertaining you.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Was it that bad, really? The others don’t seem to think so. In fact, Boyd and Isaac were talking rather enthusiastically about your god-like lightning powers.”

“It’s the weather. It’s a sigil thing. I can’t control it.”

“Nonetheless, they seem very impressed. Although I suspect there was some exaggeration. They made it sound like the Fourth of July.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “They’re just trying to be nice because Derek’s making them.” He bites his lip. “I-- I punched Boyd.”

“Yes. And he healed.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. It’s not okay for everyone to just accept me hitting people!”

“No. But I can’t imagine you’re in the habit of punching werewolves. You thought you were protecting Isaac, and that’s what they remember. And yes, Derek is keeping them in line, but they aren’t here because they have to be. They’re here because you are their friend and they’re worried.”

“I guess.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Stiles. We’ll have to work on that.”

“I’d rather stay here, thanks. Alone. Possibly forever. How much do you think Derek would charge for rent?”

Peter stifles a laugh but doesn’t say whatever is obviously on the tip of his tongue. Instead he grins and says, “You know, I’m planning the landscaping for the front yard. Lot of trees out there. If you feel like playing Zeus again, you could save us a lot of time and just get rid of them all.”

“It was an accident!”

“Just try to aim for the trunk next time. Let’s try to avoid a forest fire.”

“ _Accident_!”

\- - -

Stiles skips dinner that night and Derek doesn’t send anyone up to fetch him. He tries to sleep but can’t sit still. He paces his room but that only makes him want to run. There’s so much energy in his limbs, the need to _do_ something, and he doesn’t want to think about what it means.

\- - -

It’s just after dawn and Stiles still hasn’t slept. He feels wired and shaky, and it reminds him of how he was when this mess first started. He doesn’t like the correlation.

Finally, he gives up and lays down. Staring at the ceiling, he digs his hands into the mattress just to feel the strain of muscles and mutters to himself, “Just admit it.”

Connell. Wolfsbane. The Alpha. Hunters. More and more, probably worse and worse because things never get easier, until all his friends are dead. He’s sure of it.

He thinks of Isaac, and the panic in his chest. The adrenaline and fury Stiles had felt when he attacked Boyd. Stiles isn’t proud of what he did, but he knows he had good intentions. He just wanted Isaac safe.

He wants them all safe. Always. And him, as he isn’t, isn’t enough.

\- - -

Stiles isn’t alone for long. Half an hour at the most. Peter is at Home Depot and Derek is meeting with Deaton.

He can’t sit still. He walks through the house, he jogs up and down the stairs, he struggles to set straight the ideas in his mind. Because how can he seriously be considering this?

But Deaton had said it himself. Said the magic was used improperly. Said that Stiles had a natural inclination.

If he got it right this time, if he was careful…

He could keep his emotions in check. He could stop the dreams if he needed to. He felt balanced here in the Hale house.

His hands are shaking again.

He could do this, do it right, and make up for the mess he’s made.

His head hurts.

Is he seriously considering this? He feels like a hypocrite, remembering everything that he’s been through. He’s fighting it but he isn’t, he hates it but he wants it.

But magic could be a solution, if he does it right.

Stiles shouts in frustration. How can he be this confused? Part of him wishes none of this had happened. Part of him just wants to accept it and move on, lesson learned. Part of him wants to tattoo those sigils on his heart.

\- - -

“Stiles?” He stretches and opens his eyes. Derek is next to the couch, looking concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” He shrugs. “Guess I was just too tired to make it upstairs.” He stretches again and stands. “Lunch?”

“Sure. I brought--” Derek stiffens, suddenly alert, and then--

And then his hands are at Stiles' waist, holding him tight, and Derek is pushing him down, pinning him to the couch.

“Uh…” Don’t get aroused, do _not_ get aroused, he will _smell it_. “Derek?”

Derek looks at him and releases a low growl, his hand trailing down Stiles’ leg, and then he’s yanking Stiles’ shoe and sock off and rubbing his foot.

“Boundaries!” Stiles yelps, feeling aroused and ticklish at the same time, which, how is that even possible? “What the hell are you doing down there?!”

Derek holds up his fingers to show Stiles the ink smear. “Do. Not. Move.”

Derek is already gone by the time Stiles processes what this means, and he lifts his leg up to inspect his foot. There, written near his heel, are the first two sigils.

Fuck.

Derek reappears with a glass of water and a washcloth, and kneels on the floor in front of Stiles.

“Okay, I can explain. But only sort of. Because, yes, I was thinking about it, okay? But I wasn’t going to. Not without discussing it with Deaton first, I swear.” Derek gives him a dark look as he wets the washcloth. “Look, I’m not proud of this. But it wasn’t me!”

“The magic is still in your system,” Derek says evenly. “Thinking about it is all it takes. You’re not yourself yet. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “Know what’s annoying? That I’m, like, sleep-tattooing and I’m not even freaked out. Because: nothing new. Ya know?” Something clicks. “Wait, how did you know when I didn’t?”

“The ink,” Derek shrugs. “I can smell it on you. We’ve all been paying attention. But I called Scott over, just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case there’s more I can’t smell. We’ll clean this up--” He gestures at Stiles’ foot. “--and then we’ll have Scott inspect the rest of you when he gets here.”

“Inspect? I wasn’t alone that long, what else could I have done?”

“You didn’t realize you’d done this. We’ll have him check the rest of your body for other sigils, just to be safe, okay?”

Stiles is about to suggest alternatives, but the only alternative in mind is Derek slowly sniffing his entire body for traces of ink and… Back to fighting the arousal. “Fine,” he huffs, “whatever.”

“Just sit still.” And then Derek’s fingers are on him, carefully rubbing the ink away, and he’s so gentle, and Stiles really doesn’t know what to do with that. This is real, he thinks. It’s happening, and not in some half-formed memory. Stiles wants to hug him, hold him, keep this side of Derek for forever.

Derek’s fingers aren’t tickling now, they’re massaging the skin, and it feels amazing. It shouldn’t take this long to wash off a little ink but Stiles isn’t complaining. He just focuses on not dozing off. And listening to their breathing in such close proximity, because _yes please more_. His head falls back and he shudders a little.

“Mmm,” he hums contentedly. He struggles to open his eyes and sees Derek looking at him strangely, almost dazed. And _that_ look brings a whole collection of memories that never happened, all of them awesome.

Derek must smell the arousal now.

But he doesn’t show it, just turns the washcloth over and starts drying Stiles’s foot. And his kindness tugs at Stiles’ heart and maybe it’s their closeness or a need to fill the silence or his exhaustion after yet again losing time, but Stiles finds himself clearing his throat and saying, “Derek?”

“Yeah?” He’s finished, and setting the washcloth and glass aside.

“…I’m not okay,” he quietly admits.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just sits and waits.

“The dreams are getting better. But I still remember all this stuff, and I know it won’t happen now, but it’s still real to me. I didn’t just see it all, I could hear it and feel it and _smell_ it. And none of that is gonna go away. I keep hoping it will, but… but I know it won’t.” He feels tired, and small, and defeated.

“I do want to get better. And I really am trying. But it’s harder than I thought. And you’re being so patient, and you’re letting me stay here, and I know you said it isn’t a big deal--”

“It isn’t.”

“But it is to me. You don’t have to do any of this and you keep coming through for me anyway. So, yeah, it’s a very big deal.” Their voices are hushed. It almost feels sacred. Stiles wonders what it is about Derek that makes the rest of the world disappear. He likes it. He wants more.

Derek studies him for a moment before asking, “Is that why you were thinking about using again? Because you think it‘s necessary?”

Stiles feels ashamed and tries to squirm away, but Derek clamps his hands down on Stiles’ knees to still him. Stiles goes limp and tries to meet his eyes. “I guess? I mean, it does kind of make sense. I saw a lot of bad things, Derek. I don’t want the rest of you to see it too.”

Derek exhales, his eyes darting across Stiles‘ face while he decides what to say. “What if there was no danger? If you were like anyone else your age, is this something you would want for yourself? The magic?”

Oh. “I… I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I mean, I’m _not_ normal, so what’s the point?” Derek’s hands tighten at the ‘not normal’ bit but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“Stiles, there will always be danger. There will always be bad people out there. Always. That’s life.” Derek seems lost in thought, his forehead scrunched up, and he’s absentmindedly massaging Stiles’ knees. Eventually he shakes his head and asks again, “Is this something you want, Stiles? Either way, I won’t judge you. It’s okay to say yes, it’s okay to say no.”

Stiles wants to wrap his arms around Derek, feel his warmth, and put all his strength into hugging him. He figures he would never feel anxious or jittery again, if he had someone like Derek to hold.

“…No? I should, I’m a crappy person for not looking out for you guys.” Derek squeezes his knees again in reprimand. Stiles lowers his head in shame. “But no.”

“Then you shouldn’t do it.”

“That simple, huh?”

“Yes, that simple. We’re handling this. We’ll handle everything else.”

Derek smiles and stands, taking the cleaning supplies back to the kitchen. Stiles’ legs feel cold. He’s seriously considering following Derek, just throwing caution to the wind and seeing what happens, when the front door opens and Scott is hurrying to his side.

“How _are_ you?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles rolls his eyes at his own stupid behavior, “it’s fine. Let’s get this over with.” They go upstairs and Stiles strips, telling himself that of all his setbacks, this is easily the most humiliating.

“Okay, please keep in mind that it’s cold up here. And I’ve had a very stressful day.”

“We shower together after practice. I’ve seen you naked before.”

“I’m just saying, no judging!”

\- - -

After his heart-to-heart with Derek, Stiles makes the mistake of opening up to Deaton. He admits that he feels hindered, like he isn’t healing as quickly as might be possible. He voices his concern that writing on his body will undo his weeks of rest. He was hoping for tips, advice, maybe a heartfelt conversation.

Instead, Deaton produces a canister of powdered _something_. It smells suspiciously like the swamp spritz they used on Stiles’ room. The pack is not pleased. Stiles offers to keep it in his room but Derek is firm. The powder stays in the kitchen for easy access. The pack can deal.

Three scoops a day, mixed with whatever Stiles wishes. The next morning Scott and Isaac try to cheer him up by attempting a milkshake. Powder and milk and icecream and half a bottle of chocolate syrup. It still smells toxic and bubbles suspiciously.

“Oh, god, you can’t imagine. Seriously. And the syrup combines with the powder and kinda… congeals.” Stiles pinches his nose, shudders, and chokes down as much as he can. Scott and Isaac make supportive noises from the next room.

What’s really annoying is that it works. As soon as he drinks the stuff, his body calms down. Which means he has to keep drinking it. “A week of this,” he whines. “I’m on a freaking magical detox. Maybe it’s karma. Payback for every pizza I ever denied my dad.”

\- - -

Peter makes crepes that night to cheer him up. Stiles eats eight and his appreciative moans are more obscene with each one. His eating has been on autopilot, mostly done to keep Derek happy, but now everything is delicious and it’s like he’s really _tasting_ food for the first time in months.

Derek seems fascinated with his mouth. Stiles figures he has hollandaise sauce on his chin.

\- - -

_This is not a special dream. There is no urgency. Everyone is gathered for Christmas, cheerful and laughing, and Scott is already digging under the tree. Almost 30, and he’s still the biggest kid in the room._

_“Stiles, look,” he coos, “so much stuff! Lots of… things, filled with stuff!”_

_“Well said, Scott.”_

Stiles grins affectionately in his sleep.

\- - -

Stiles and Isaac start jogging every afternoon. It feels good to stretch his muscles and push his physical limits. They go further into the preserve every day, following the animal trails and going wherever their legs take them.

One day they make it to the top of a tall hill and get a great view of the area. “I used to come here a lot,” Isaac admits. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Before you were bit?”

“No, after. When you first get the bite, there’s so much energy. Too much. I would run for hours just because I could. And I found this place. We’re so high up, it’s like you can see everything. And no one can see you. It feels free.”

Stiles digs his shoe into the dirt and grins. “We should totally do a Tarzan yell. Freak Derek right the hell out.”

Isaac smiles back. “Go for it.”

“Seriously? You don’t think he’ll worry?”

“He can hear the difference. And we do stupid stuff like this all the time. We try to get him to unwind but it doesn’t usually work.”

The idea of just letting go is very tempting. Stiles bites his lip. “Let’s do it.”

They stand by side by side, big grins, whooping and hollering until Stiles is hoarse, trying to outdo each other’s echoes.

\- - -

Stiles thinks sometimes of knocking on Derek’s door. He doesn’t have an excuse anymore, he’s sleeping through the night and the few visions he has are positive. He doesn’t need comfort. But he thinks sometimes of what he and Derek would’ve had, and it’s distracting. Like he’s trying to stop himself from taking something that’s already his.

He can’t have Derek. He understands that. But he knows what it’s like to sleep side by side, the heat of his skin, the rhythm of his breath. He remembers the brush of his lips and weight of his body.

Stiles likes the friendship they’re building. But sometimes, not having something more just seems like a waste.

\- - -

The entire pack is helping to finish the addition to the back porch. Stiles has been allowed a nail gun, finally, and unsupervised use, barely. He may be developing a slight addiction to manly power tools. But he’s careful, tries not to look too manic, pretends he’s his new zen self, because it’s clear that Derek will not hesitate to take his new toy away.

Despite complaints of underage workers and forced labor, everyone’s actually having fun. Especially Erica, who has abandoned her hammer and is busy googling construction injuries. Stiles has to admit, the head full of nails is particularly gruesome.

“Maybe you should wear a hard hat,” Scott suggests, not for the first time.

“Shh,” Stiles hisses. “These safety goggles are bad enough.” He wriggles his nose to fight an itch and continues securing a floorboard. Truthfully, some head protection isn’t a bad idea. He’s surrounded by inexperienced teens with hammers and screwdrivers. Something _will_ go wrong, and he’s the only one that can’t heal. But he wants to fit in. He wants Derek to think of him as one of the guys, not the geeky little brother who tagged along.

Derek… who is currently installing a support beam and sweating magnificently. His muscles flexing with every movement. His shirt riding up…

“Dude!” He frowns at Scott for interrupting his fantasies, then realizes that the nail gun’s aim has drifted toward Scott’s chest. “Heh. Oops. Sorry.” Scott squawks in protest. “Relax, there’s a safety feature. I won’t shoot you, jeez.”

“Stiles,” Derek calls, not bothering to look over, “time’s up.”

“What? No!” He wants to hug the nail gun to him in protest, but he’s not that dumb. Instead he steps back and gets back to work on the floorboards. Derek sees this and scowls, puts down his screwdriver and walks over.

“Stiles, I said--” The screech of tires distracts him. He nods at Boyd to check it out, who hurries around the corner. Stiles takes advantage of the disruption to start working again. He really is in love with this thing. What’re the chances his dad would buy him one for Christmas?

“Stiles!” He jumps at the sound of Allison’s voice. She’s running up, Boyd beside her, and Derek tenses at the fear and concern he can smell on her.

“What’s happened,” he demands.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “what’s wrong?”

“You didn‘t answer your phone.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “Derek’s rule. Stiles can have a power tool or his phone. Not both at once. A decision we all fully supported.”

Stiles ignores her and focuses on Allison. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Stephen Connell.” Everyone is silent.

Stiles’ spine stiffens at his name. Suddenly, the nail gun isn’t fun anymore. It feels heavy in his hand, and his finger around the trigger reminds him of something else.

“Wha--” He clears his throat. “What happened?”

“My dad was working with the hunters in Oregon. Connell told one of them that he had a new way to kill werewolves, and the guy let him go.”

“Connell is loose?” Derek roars. “How long?”

“An hour? Maybe two. My dad couldn’t reach you so he sent me.”

“That’s…” His throat feels tight, probably from all the sawdust. “Okay. We can handle it.” He looks to Derek for support.

“There’s more,” Allison adds timidly. “Connell knows that my dad helped to catch him. And he knows there’s a pack in Beacon Hills. They think he may be coming down here.”

“Let him,” Derek growls. Stiles watches him and thinks, I could’ve stopped this. I could’ve kept you safe.

“This is my fault,” Stiles manages.

“No,” Derek says firmly.

“Stiles--” Allison tries, but neither hear her.

“I had my chance,” Stiles argues. “I should’ve taken it.”

“He is not your responsibility, Stiles!”

“Anyone that hurts any of you is my--”

“No! We’ve talked about this! Connell is not your--”

“Why, because I’m not pack?” Stiles demands.

Stunned, Derek just looks at him.

“Stiles. Derek.” Allison tries again, gently. “He could be coming. We need a plan.”

“Talk to the big bad Alpha,” Stiles retorts. “Because apparently it’s not my problem.”

“It could be,” she admits. “That’s what I’m trying to say. The guy that helped him get away. He may have given Connell your name. Stiles, if he comes to Beacon Hills you’re in just as much danger as the pack.”

The shocked silence is cut short by a metallic _ka-thunk_. Confused, Stiles looks down at his foot. His bleeding foot. Fucking nail gun.

“ _Seriously_ ,” he seethes, “fuck my life.”

 


	6. I will take your breath away

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Stiles giggles as Scott helps him inside. Stress and exhaustion and adrenaline and Connell and Derek’s stupid face are all hitting him at once, and his body can’t take it. And Stiles is so very okay with that. He’d rather laugh at his stupid life because the alternatives suck.

Scott rolls his eyes and Isaac bites back a grin. Derek stands in the doorway with a dark look and says nothing.

Once they clean off the blood, it doesn’t actually look too bad. A deep scrape down the side of his foot but no actual holes. Boyd, ever practical, points out that walking on a wound is a bad idea and that a trip to the ER would be smart.

Stiles, however, has no interest in reintroducing himself to the town via the freaking _hospital_. He looks to Derek for support but the doorway is empty.

“At least it wasn’t your head,” Scott points out.

“It is kind of a miracle that you’ve survived this long,” Isaac points out, sounding impressed.

“You’ll live,” Boyd shrugs, less impressed.

His shoe is a total loss, though, what with the blood and the perforation.

\- - -

Connell doesn’t show, that day or the next.

The pack stays on guard, though. They keep a strict schedule watching Stiles’ house and the police department, discreetly, in case the hunter tries to find Stiles through his dad.

And Stiles is never alone. Before, the pack had always been near but tried to give him space. Now, they’re keeping close, following him around, lounging in his room.

“It’s not just me,” he tries to point out. “He could be coming for all of us.”

“More reason to stick together,” Isaac deflects. “We protect you, you protect us.” Stiles snorts at the idea but lets it go.

The only one not shadowing his every move is Derek. He sticks close to the house but stays far away from Stiles.

\- - -

After a week, Stiles is stir crazy. And he loves these guys, but he’s kinda sick of their faces.

Peter is cool, though. He keeps near but doesn’t show it. Like babysitting is something he’s used to. And maybe he is, Stiles realizes. He and Derek were born werewolves, people have probably been hunting them their entire lives. Yet another lousy aspect of Derek’s life. The brooding doesn’t just make sense, it’s starting to seem underutilized.

Peter and Stiles spend a lot of time in the kitchen. Stiles is learning healthy dishes that his dad may actually enjoy. His minestrone is passable, his eggplant parmesan needs work.

He’s thumbing through a cookbook one morning when Peter appears at his side and waves a shopping list. “I’m running desperately low on saffron. Feel up to a road trip?”

“God, yes! Just gimme a sec?” He runs upstairs for his hoodie and wallet.

Erica keeps her eyes on her phone. “Smooth. You check with Derek first?”

“For a grocery run? Please. The boy will be perfectly safe with me.”

Erica has her doubts but Stiles’ reappearance keeps her quiet, as he all but shoves Peter out the door.

“Can we take your jeep?” Peter requests. “More space in the back.”

Stiles shrugs and walks ahead. “How much saffron could you need?”

Peter just smiles. “I’m stocking up on a few things, actually.”

The drive into town is comfortable and filled with small talk. Stiles doesn’t really think of what he’s doing until they’re driving into downtown Beacon Hills and he’s suddenly aware of the other cars, the pedestrians, the sheer amount of _noise_ the town has. Stiles didn’t realize how accustomed to the quiet, isolated Hale house he had become.

Peter senses the skip of his heart and glances over. “Alright?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“We can go back. Shopping can wait.”

“No. It really is fine.” And Stiles means it. He has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter for reassurance, but he is surprisingly okay.

Peter smiles with confidence as he shows Stiles which turn to take. “Just think, a few weeks ago you wouldn’t leave your room. And now, here you are, grocery shopping with the big bad wolf.” Stiles snorts. “What a difference a month makes, hmm?”

“Got that right.” They pull up to a small specialty foods shop that Stiles knows but has never entered. The kind of place with insane prices and mostly imported labels. He wonders, not for the first time, where the Hales get their money when neither works, but he suspects the words “multiple life insurance policies” would come up, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Shopping with Peter is actually a lot of fun. He seems to know a use for everything, can answer any question Stiles throws at him, and nearly half his purchases are impulse buys. Shopping with Peter must drive Derek _nuts_. Watching the two of them would be hilarious, Stiles thinks, and resolves to make it happen somehow.

It’s also interesting to see the different ways people treat Peter. No one knows the whole story, of course, but they seem to rely on a mix of gossip and their own instincts. The shop owner is polite but cautious. The guy at the cheese counter actually sneers. The stock boy blushes and the checkout girl winks. Stiles isn’t shocked to learn that Peter is an equal opportunity flirt.

“Having fun?” Peter asks as they load bags into the jeep.

“It’s certainly educational.” Peter practically preens and Stiles just rolls his eyes.

“Leave some room,” Peter instructs, pushing the bags closer together.

“More shopping? How is that possible? You already bought, like, half the store. And managed to not buy anything normal, like milk or eggs or bread.”

“Not shopping.” Peter glances at his watch. “We still have time before dinner. Up for another stop?” He directs them to the other side of town, to the warehouse district. Not long ago, all sorts of alarms would be going off in Stiles’ head, but today he’s just curious.

They pull up to a storage facility and drive to the back row of units. Peter pulls a key from his pocket and leads them to a storage unit the size of a garage. He yanks up the door, flicks on the light and welcomes Stiles in with a theatrical bow.

Stiles would roll his eyes or make a joke, but he’s too distracted by the items carefully stacked, wall to wall, up to the ceiling. Boxes, chests, furniture, some covered in sheets. There’s a familiar earthy smell that reminds of Stiles of the Hale house from his visions, and he knows that these are family items.

“How?” he wonders, gently fingering a vase. “How did you save so much?” None of it even smells like smoke.

“We didn’t,” Peter shrugs, squinting as he turns away. “The house is old. The attic and shed weren’t exactly climate controlled. Anything that wasn’t being used, we stored here. We’re an old family, Stiles. Lots of heirlooms.” He pokes at an art deco lamp. “And junk, frankly.”

“Does Derek know about this?”

“Of course. And I intend to start furnishing the house with some of this once the renovations are complete. I had planned to start sooner, but seeing our family’s possessions makes Derek… uncomfortable.”

“This is very cool. And, a little sad,” Stiles admits, taking everything in. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I thought you’d find it interesting.” He points to a wooden cabinet near Stiles. “We stored a lot of old books in there. Including the collection of poetry I told you about.” Peter is quiet for a moment and Stiles looks away, giving him space.

Eventually they both wander to the same area, a row of lamps, and Peter waves a hand. “Help me choose one. It’s time to start bringing things back home.”

“Is-- Will Derek be okay with this?” He wants to encourage Peter. But he also wants to fix things with Derek, and he doesn’t think this will help.

“Eventually. We have to start somewhere. It’s one lamp - what can he say, really?”

“Plenty,” Stiles mutters. “In fact, Derek’s only really chatty when he’s pissed.”

Peter chuckles. “True. But sometimes my nephew is so entrenched in how he feels that he can’t move. Sometimes, he needs a hard shove in the right direction.” His hand brushes Stiles’ shoulder. “Do you understand?”

Suddenly, they’re not discussing lamps. They’re discussing Stiles’ ‘not pack’ comment from last week. No one has brought it up. Stiles figures they don’t think it’s their place or something. Stiles really doesn’t want to talk about it. But he also doesn’t want to seem ungrateful when Peter is making an effort. So he summons up a smile and says, “Yeah. Thanks.” And points at a simple pewter lamp. “That one.”

\- - -

Derek hates the lamp but doesn’t actually say anything. He sulks through dinner and then glares at the thing every time he passes. Stiles figures it’s less glares in his direction, so totally worth it.

\- - -

Stiles wakes the next morning when something flops onto his stomach. He opens one eye. A paintbrush. He opens the other. Derek standing beside him.

“The office downstairs,” Derek directs, then walks out. Another stellar conversation.

He sighs and hauls himself out of bed, wondering what he has to do to make Derek smile again.

\- - -

The pale shade of blue is actually quite nice. Peter has good taste. Stiles has the first wall nearly finished and thinks he’s doing a decent job, despite the many globs and streaks covering his hands and shirt and shoes. He pauses to admire the blue against his skin.

“That’s meant to go on the walls.” Stiles jumps at the voice and spins to see Derek right behind him, holding painting supplies of his own. Derek just watches him with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m getting there,” Stiles defends. He waves the brush, splattering more. Good thing there’s plastic covering the floor. “Just consider my clothes… artistic expression.”

“Uh-huh.” Derek walks to the opposite wall and gets to work. The two of them alone and just a few feet apart, but Stiles may as well be alone for all the notice he gets. It sucks. He was actually enjoying the work until Derek showed up. A week ago he would’ve given anything for an opportunity like this, and loved every second of it. Now it’s just awkward and awful, and Stiles can’t even tell if Derek is feeling the discomfort like he is, or if the man is as stubbornly oblivious as always.

Derek is like a math problem Stiles can’t solve, how to get from point A to point B.

“I want this room done today.” It sounds like an order, and Stiles starts to form a retort, but Derek continues. “Peter is getting antsy. He’s driving me crazy. If I give him something to decorate and furnish, I’m hoping--”

“That he’ll be satisfied and back off?” Stiles suggests. “And _not_ go crazy and dump all your family antiques on you in a single day? Keep dreaming.”

“He says you chose the lamp.”

Is that better or worse? He can’t tell. “Well, yeah.”

“It was my mother’s.” Crap.

“I didn’t know.”

“No, it’s good. I think-- it’s a good choice. Just takes some getting used to.” Derek focuses on his wall, on smooth, even strokes, doesn’t look over at Stiles. “How was the rest of your trip?”

“Fine. Just groceries. And your uncle’s flirty ways.”

Derek’s paintbrush falters. “What?”

“Half the employees got a wink or worse. Especially the ones that couldn’t stand him. It’s like his coping mechanism or something.”

“Oh.” Derek doesn’t offer more and silence settles again. Stiles thinks that’s the end of it, but after a few minutes Derek clears his throat and asks, “So it was okay? Going into town, I mean?”

“Better than I expected. It was fun. Peter made it easy. I mean, it was a little weird, I felt like I’d been gone for months.” In a way, he supposes he has been. “But we didn’t go anywhere too crowded and I didn’t have a meltdown in the cereal aisle or anything.”

“That’s good.”

“Progress, definitely. If it weren’t for the Connell thing, I’d probably be out of your hair already.”

Derek all but growls in annoyance. “You keep saying stuff like that. Like you being here is a problem. It isn’t. _I_ invited you, remember?”

“Pretty sure you didn’t sign on for five weeks-” Shit, nearly six now, the summer’s half gone. “-of babysitting a crazy person.”

“I knew what I was doing. And it’s fine.”

He should let it go, he knows it, but he throws the words out before he can change his mind. “Then what’s with the silent treatment?” He’s painted the same spot two or three times now. He scoots over and starts on a fresh spot. “Is it an Alpha thing? Arguing with you in front of the others? Because you guys fight _all the time_ and I know I’m not some--”

“Not pack,” Derek mutters, setting his brush down.

And he’s always known that Derek didn’t consider him pack, not really, but the others seem to and Stiles let himself believe that it was enough. Maybe not pack, but pack-adjacent at least. But hearing Derek say those two words hurts. Like, knife-in-the-heart hurts.

Derek hears his heart stutter and stares at the floor near Stiles’ feet. “You said that, not me. You said you weren’t pack.” He glances up, and his eyes are like magnets. Stiles can’t look away. And it really isn’t fair. No one should be that ridiculously attractive.

“And you didn’t correct me.”

Derek flinches. “I-- I didn’t expect it. You saying something like that. I thought we were getting better.” He frowns. “And you’re with the pack all the time. I thought it was obvious.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Everyone else says it,” Derek points out, sounding a little like a petulant child.

“But you’re the Alpha. It’s kind of a big deal. And let’s be honest, you don’t say much of anything. There’s too much to misinterpret.”

“I don’t have time to coddle everyone,” Derek argues. “I’m building a pack and _re_ building a house and dealing with hunters and kanimas and sirens and whatever the hell comes next.” He steps closer. “You think I don’t know how much I’ve screwed up? I’m trying, Stiles, but I can’t do it on my own. I thought you had my back, I thought we were keeping them safe together.” He clamps his mouth shut, like he’s freaked by his own words. Stiles isn’t sure why. He waits for him to bolt but instead Derek squares his shoulders, like he’s facing a firing squad, and steps right into Stiles’ personal space. “If there was a problem, you should’ve said. In private.”

“If I have to ask, then it doesn’t count.”

Derek just rolls his eyes. “And just because I don’t say it, doesn’t mean I don’t think it.” He rests a hand on Stiles’ arm and his voice softens. “And _yes_. You are pack.”

Derek’s hand is warm. So are his eyes. Stiles wants to stand there forever. And that’s a problem, because Derek is making an effort at peace and Stiles probably stinks with arousal. Maybe the paint fumes are covering it?

You’ve got your friend back, he thinks. Do not screw this up.

“Thanks.” He steps out of Derek’s grasp and gestures toward the walls. “Let’s get back to work.”

They don’t say anything else. Derek looks over sometimes and smiles, and Stiles grins back. It’s easy and comfortable. He missed this.

\- - -

Miles away, a gunshot echoes.

_A clock is ticking and the wind is blowing…_

Stiles mumbles happily in his dream, unaware of a door slamming downstairs.

_The snow is bright and fresh. Frost covers all the windows…_

Urgent voices grow closer.

_He’s warm and safe but there’s a cold spot beside him in bed…_

“Stiles!”

“Ack!” He’s awake, he’s blinking painfully as the bedroom light is switched on. “What the hell, man?”

Isaac is standing at the door, looking a little wild. “Something’s wrong. We think it’s Connell. Come downstairs.” He rushes away.

His dream forgotten, Stiles jumps out of bed and grabs his jeans from the floor. His hands start to shake. It’s the middle of the night. His mind is still waking up. They’ve waited a week for this but it still feels unexpected.

He runs downstairs and finds Isaac in the living room with Derek and Peter. Derek is on the phone with someone and looks Stiles up and down when he walks in.

“No… If you’re not sure, then don’t try… You’ll be too far apart. Find Boyd. Hunt together.”

Isaac pulls Stiles aside and explains, “They all saw someone at their houses. Erica and Boyd and Scott. Same guy. We think it’s Connell. They all followed him into the woods but none of them can follow the scent. It’s like he disappeared. They almost gave up when Erica heard a gunshot. They’re trying to regroup, see if they can find him together.”

“I’m going, too,” Derek says, hanging up. “They’re not used to tracking. With four of us, it shouldn’t take long.” He looks at Isaac and Peter. “You two stay here. Keep the doors locked.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Obviously. Go!”

Derek glances at Stiles before he runs out the door.

They split up to lock the doors and secure the windows. Stiles keeps glancing outside, trying to see something, _anything_ , in the dark, but his human eyes are useless. All he can do is wait.

The three congregate in the kitchen. Peter makes tea to stay busy and Isaac stares at his phone. Stiles is still looking outside. He doesn’t know why. Too little sleep, maybe. It would explain his slight dizziness.

“This place,” Peter sighs. “We all need a vacation.”

“Someplace sunny,” Isaac agrees. “With a beach.”

“And those drinks with the little umbrellas,” Stiles grins. Small talk isn’t really helping his stress levels, but he appreciates the distraction.

“Or a cruise,” Peter suggests.

Isaac perks up. “Even better. Nothing can come after us on a cruise ship.”

“So it’s decided. We’ll convince Derek it’s for pack morale.”

“We could even--” Isaac and Peter freeze, their heads snapping toward the back door.

“What is it?” Stiles whispers cautiously. Peter nods to Isaac, his eyes glowing, and he runs outside.

Isaac keeps his eyes on the door but frowns in confusion. “You can’t hear that? I mean, it’s not loud, but you should--” He tilts his head. “It’s fading. Peter is chasing it.” He grabs his phone and dials Derek’s number.

Stiles' fingers are tingling.

“Derek?” Isaac is still looking outside, his head moving back and forth while he tries to follow distant sounds. “It was here. Peter’s going after it. It sounds like it’s heading toward town… Yeah, okay.” He hangs up and shrugs. “Derek says to wait.”

“Look, I don’t like the idea of being alone, but Peter-- You should help him. We don’t know what’s going on, he might need backup.” Stiles prays that Isaac won’t hear his pounding heart, or smell the adrenaline building in his system. He doesn’t want Isaac to feel like he should stay.

“The others are going to find him. They’ll find Connell together. They’ll--” Isaac is still talking, but Stiles hears none of it. He’s hearing something else, something that Isaac doesn’t. Footsteps creaking on the floorboards of the hallway.

Someone is already inside the house.

Stiles dives over and clamps a hand to Isaac’s mouth. “Yeah,” he agrees loudly, giving Isaac a pointed look, “you’re right. Waiting here is the smart move.” He points his chin toward the back door and Isaac nods his agreement. Slowly, they move as one, Isaac watching the door while Stiles stares at the entrance to the hall. He can’t see anything, but something tells him that means nothing.

And god, his head. The dizziness is worse and his throat is tightening from fear.

No.

No, he knows this reaction. The tightness and a growing itch inside his throat, like spiders trying to crawl out. 

“Wolfsbane.” He clenches Isaac’s arm, fingernails digging into his skin. “Connell’s here. We run to the jeep, understand?” He yanks him forward and they spring through the door, out into the night, racing to the driveway.

And suddenly, a deafening bang, and Isaac is stumbling forward, falling over his own feet and slamming into the ground.

Stiles looks around but sees nothing. Kneels down and wraps an arm around Isaac’s waist to help him up. Isaac groans and whimpers but does his best, clutching his chest and suddenly shaking.

The blood from the gunshot wound is already soaking through his shirt.

“Fuck! Isaac, stay with me, okay? We’re almost there!” He guides them forward, _the jeep is so freaking close_ , and his eyes dart around. Still no one, and _what is he missing_?

Doesn’t matter, they’re at the jeep, they’re going to be fine. Stiles bundles Isaac into the passenger seat before racing around to the driver’s side. Key in the ignition, headlights on, tires spitting gravel as they speed away.

Isaac is wheezing, tiny painful breaths that make Stiles wince. He glances over and sees a familiar black spreading through Isaac’s veins. It’s spreading fast. Hybrid wolfsbane. Stiles knows the itch in his own throat, recognizes the rhythmic tremors Isaac is now experiencing.

Stay calm, he begs himself. For fuck’s sake, do not let him smell your fear.

“Isaac,” he urges, “Isaac, I need you to stay awake! Do you understand? I know what’s happening and I think Deaton can help, but you _have to stay awake_! Talk to me!”

“W-we can’t. Deaton. Town. Go to town. Safe there.” The tremors are already worsening. Stiles remembers this. He knows this kind of wolfsbane, remembers how the story ends. If they dig the bullet out soon, Isaac has a chance. There must be more in the air at the house, but they’re both still conscious so Stiles figures they didn’t inhale too much of it.

“Deaton is who you need. Don’t argue.”

“No. Get you somewhere safe,” Isaac manages. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yes,” Stiles snaps, “it is very obviously a bad idea, and probably a trap, but it’s a very effective trap because the alternative is you bleeding to death!” Fucking martyr werewolves.

“Will it hurt?” Isaac suddenly sounds small, almost childlike. “Will I hurt you?”

“What?! No!”

“You s-said we all go crazy. You said.”

“No. We have time.”

“P-pull ov-over.” Isaac is already grabbing the door handle. “I-I’m not--”

“God dammit, Isaac, stop! We are staying together, we are going to Deaton, you’re not going to hurt anyone, I will fix this. _We are going to be okay_.” Stiles’ mind is racing. He’s not even sure he’s making sense, this wolfsbane affects humans too and he’s trying, but driving and holding Isaac away from the door and trying to plan ahead and--

Something is ahead.

No.

Yes.

The jeep’s lights shine on something, nothing, something closer now, nothing.

The road is empty.

The road is not.

Connell is up ahead, standing in the middle of the road. Just waiting. And if he thinks that Stiles is going to swerve or even fucking slow down--

The screech of metal striking metal, gravity defied as the jeep flips, glass shattering around them.

He can’t see much, his ears are ringing, he’s on his side and the jeep is a mass of twisted metal jabbing into him. He’s fumbling with his seatbelt, reaching for Isaac, feels something wet, blood, probably both of theirs, and Isaac is still shaking so Isaac’s still alive and--

The air is putrid. Something close is gasping in his ear.

The world goes black.

\- - -

_A clock is ticking and the wind is blowing, and Stiles listens to both as he stretches, smiling at the pleasant aches of his body…_

A jolt of pain burns like fire and he wakes up with a muffled scream. His mind scrambling to think, Stiles backs up until he hits a tree and slides down to its base.

He’s in a clearing. He must be in the preserve, because he sees a hill nearby, the hill where he and Isaac--

“God, oh fuck, Isaac. Isaac?!” Stiles looks around in a panic but there’s no one. He’s alone, miles from the house, no idea how he got here. He’s covered in blood, some of it his own. He tries to push himself up and his left hand throbs. He looks down and sees that it’s red and swollen. Probably sprained, maybe fractured.

He ignores the pain as best he can and tries to formulate a plan. He can use the hill as a guiding point. Find his way back to the house. Get a car, drive to Deaton’s. Decide what to do because Connell is near and he has fucking wolfsbane and, god, the others could already be hurt. Could be losing their minds. If they weren’t already--

The smell again, like rotting hamburger. Stiles gags, spits out some blood, and uses his right hand to cover his nose and mouth. It’s getting stronger, it’s sending shivers down his spine.

Connell appears at the other end of the clearing and walks toward Stiles.

Stiles struggles to stand and manages to trip instead, landing on his stomach as Connell approaches. His muscles are tense, telling him to run, but Stiles can’t. Stiles wouldn’t, even if he could.

This is his mess to fix.

“You,” he groans.

“You,” Connell retorts, mocking. “Stephen Smith. Stiles Stilinski. The human pack member. Explains how you got past my mountain ash.” He pulls a road flare from his back pocket and twists it and throws it to the ground as it sparks.

A flash of golden light and Stiles is temporarily blinded. He blinks and accustoms his eyes to the new brightness, sees a large fire next to Connell with wood carefully stacked inside a stone circle.

Connell was planning to bring him here. Stiles doesn’t care. The fire will attract the others.

Buy time, he thinks.

“Why are you here?”

“For you. When my fellow hunters trapped and imprisoned me, they told me such a strange tale. Of mutant aconite breeds. Of humans endangered. And my good friend Chris Argent was so very sure. So I knew the answer was in Beacon Hills. When I learned of the human pack member, I knew. The boy at my door. With a queer interest in aconite.”

Connell steps closer and the stench follows him. Stiles gags. Connell is in front of him and the stink is worse. Stiles chokes on a cough. The smell - the smell is coming from Connell. And up close, Stiles can see why.

Connell is covered in sigils.

Mostly the same ones, over and over, scratched deep into his skin, like he was using knives and fingernails and maybe needles. Some are inked on, and those are infected. Large patches of his skin are enflamed and swollen with oozing pus. Connell’s body is rotting.

Stiles looks away and vomits.

\- - -

_He’s warm and safe…_

He’s hot. Too hot. His skin is burning. Stiles blinks, the world sways, he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on equilibrium.

He can hear the fire crackling next to him. He can hear the slow, labored breaths of Connell, just a few feet away. And still, that smell…

Slowly opening his eyes, Stiles wills his feet to move. He manages to get to his knees, figures it’s better than nothing.

Something shines. Stiles squints. A hunting knife, next to Connell, stuck in the ground and reflecting the firelight. Connell has a knife. Stiles has nothing.

Connell follows Stiles’ eyes and smiles grimly. Reaches over and slowly wraps his fingers around the hilt, pulling up. Panic is filling Stiles, and he tells himself it’s okay. His friends aren’t here to smell his reaction. It’s just him and a crazed hunter.

“You know much about knives, son?” Stiles fights back a snarl, _I’m not your son_ , and only shakes his head. “This one’s mostly for fish and small game. You use it to skin the flesh from their bones.” Connell holds it up, twirls it in the firelight. “Gotta keep it sharp, or it makes such a mess.”

Connell grins again, ugly and twisted, and holds out his own arm for Stiles to see the decaying flesh around two sigils on his forearm.

Connell grasps the knife, Stiles’ breath hitches and he wills his feet to move, to outrun the coming attack, and then Connell--

Connell is cutting away his own skin. Slicing away the dead meat. Nausea is building and Stiles wants to look away but he can’t, he’s crying and he doesn’t care.

“Out with the old, in with the new,” Connell says matter-of-factly, tossing his own flesh aside. “They burn up so quickly. Too quickly. Never enough time when I need it.” He’s still muttering, too low for Stiles to hear, staring with fascination at his own skin.

Stiles could run. Well, Stiles could try. Energy is leaving his body and he suspects that there may be more wolfsbane in the air here.

Connell is still talking, rambling mostly, nothing coherent, though Stiles catches the name Miranda a few times. His dead wife.

“What now?” Stiles finds himself asking. “What happens now?” He’s so tired. He wants to go home. He wants to hold Derek. He wants Derek to hold him. But Connell must have a plan, or what his magic-addled mind _thinks_ is a plan, and Stiles needs to know it. Needs to know where the wolfsbane is and if it’s spreading.

“You heard me,” Connell remarks, looking up.

“Uh.”

“In the house. Wasn’t really me, but you heard me.” In the house. At Erica’s and Boyd’s and Scott’s. Probably wasn’t really him in the road either. Explains why the others were confused.

“I think… I think it’s the sigils. I’ve used them too. Maybe I’m immune, I don’t know.” He doesn’t want to know. Ever.

“Uh-huh,” Connell says, his eyes shining. “Amazing, isn’t it? The clarity.” Stiles remembers that feeling, the idea that it made sense, that not telling anyone made sense. He remembers lots of bad ideas and how they only seemed stupid in retrospect.

He thinks of how he nearly shot a man. How lost he was just a few weeks ago. How twisted Connell is now.

Peter was right, what a difference a month makes.

A sigil on Connell’s neck is glowing. He closes his eyes and hums. “Your _friends_. They’re close.”

No.

“What are you going to do to them?”

His eyes snap open. “What they deserve. What they all deserve.”

No fucking way.

“You don’t even know them. They didn’t kill your wife.”

“Don’t you talk about her!” Connell shouts.

“Or what, you’ll kill me twice?” Stiles yells. Enough is fucking enough, he tells his feet to move and they obey. He stands. “Killing them will not bring Miranda back--”

“You do not say her name,” he spits. “You do not _speak_!” And Stiles can feel his mouth clenching, his teeth grinding, knows that Connell is doing this, but Connell wasn’t here five weeks ago when Stiles stood in the rain and forced words out for Deaton to hear. Stiles refuses to be silenced.

“You’re not going to touch them,” Stiles snarls. “You don’t know them, you know nothing _about_ them, you don’t have the fucking right!” The knife is glinting beside Connell. Stiles is close. He could try.

“Humanity gives me the right,” Connell jeers. “Nature gives me the right. We are stronger, we will prevail. I lost Miranda but I will fix--”

“That’s not their fault!”

“They’re monsters! You’re human! How can you betray your own kind?!”

“Those people are my family!”

“They are not people! They’re monsters!”

“ _They_ aren’t planning a mass murder!”

“It’s justice!”

“It’s a hate crime, you stupid asshole!”

“Enough!” Connell picks up the knife and steps closer. Stiles looks at the woods around them, wonders why they’re still alone.

“Oh, they can’t hear you, son,” Connell dismisses. “Can’t see our fire, either. Nobody’s coming for you.” Fucking magic. Okay. Plan B.

“So you’re going to kill me?” Stiles is buying time, but the question is real. His heart clenches.

“If you want to stand with them, then you’re going to fall with them,” Connell shrugs, like killing a teenager is nothing. “I’m going to kill them all. No one’s getting in my way.”

“And then what?”

“And then I move on to the next pack.”

“Chris Argent told you what would happen. How can you risk that?”

“I just want to keep people safe.”

“No. That’s just a bonus for you. You want confusion. You want pain and terror. You want death. And you’re going to get it. Your wolfsbane doesn’t just hurt wolves. It hurts humans, too.”

“Lie.”

“No. It’s the truth. I’ve seen it. A hundred different ways, and always the same ending. Everybody dies.”

Connell smiles. The bastard _smiles_. He’s trembling from blood loss and twitching to whatever sounds are in his head and he’s obviously insane and evil, and he’s smiling at the thought of everything that haunts Stiles.

“Good,” Connell says. And laughs.

And Stiles snaps. His own head is raging, too, with every person he‘s shot, every scream he’s heard, every grave he’s dug.

He cries out and crouches down, gathering his strength--

Connell reacts, grabbing the knife and running forward.

\--and Stiles takes a rock from the fire pit and lunges forward, ignoring the singeing heat in his hand as he jumps onto Connell and bashes the rock against his head.

They both fall. Only Stiles sits up.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t _want_ to care. He doesn’t want to look. He can’t ignore everything he’s still thinking, can’t shut his mind up, can’t or won’t and there’s too much to remember and he doesn’t want it, and still there’s screaming and crying and blood on his hands and Derek dying, everybody dying, bodies burning and strangers begging and all of it--

All of it, for one man’s satisfaction. Connell wants those things.

Stiles crawls off of him and picks up the knife. Connell is unconscious but still alive, shallow breaths and blood pooling near his head. He can’t fight back. Stiles can end this. Stiles can slit his throat and walk away, and he’s certain that he’ll never regret it.

Maybe it’s a mercy killing. Stiles certainly has enough experience with those, he’s taken his own friends down over and over. And Connell is just wreckage at this point, the magic has devoured him and he let it, he never fought it like Stiles.

Stiles turns the knife in his hand, thinking. Trying to tell himself that he’s ready, knowing that Connell will find others that agree with him, and then it will be too late. Fury sparks in him at the thought.

Stiles grips the hilt tightly and slides next to Connell. Lets the anger and fear and pain carry him forward, and his face is flushing with energy as he raises the knife up--

Connell groans. Coughs. Tries to get up but can’t, but he keeps trying. Pushing up with hands and elbows, his arm still bleeding and his balance gone. He tries to look up at Stiles, squinting through bleary eyes, and struggles to say something. All he manages is a scoff.

And then he passes out, collapsing on the ground, his head falling to the side, baring his neck for Stiles. His breathing is weak and hitched. His skin is yellow and sweaty. His body trembles. The sigils pulse.

Stiles understands the threat the Connell poses, the terror that he strives for. Any of those horrific futures could still happen, and all because of one man. But now, looking down, Stiles also sees him as he is now, weak and alone and a waste of a life. Broken.

Stiles sighs, world-weary, and drops the knife. Brings his legs up and tucks his knees under his chin. His chest is trembling and he isn’t surprised when the tears come. Because no one knows, no one will ever understand how hard it was to show mercy.

He reaches out, acting on instinct, and carefully places a hand on Connell’s chest. He shuts his eyes and wills the magic away, imagines it fading, leaving them both in peace.

The few sigils still glowing on Connell’s skin dim, then turn black, nothing more than festering wounds.

Stiles sighs and pulls his hand back. He turns his head to rest his cheek on his knees and listens as the sounds of the nighttime forest slowly filter in. Insects, breeze blowing through leaves, the rustle of small animals. The fire crackles beside him and Stiles feels it warming his shaking muscles.

A howl in the distance, and then another. Stiles opens his eyes and looks over at the sound, sees a silhouette on the hill. He smiles and inches closer to the fire to wait.

A chorus of howls, closer now. His pack has found him.

\- - -

The next few hours are a blur. Stiles isn’t sure how he’s still conscious, honestly.

Isaac is alive. Deaton thinks he’ll recover.

Convincing Derek to let Connell live is difficult, and he anticipates an argument but there is none. Derek stands, muscles taut, eyes bright red, clearly furious and barely contained. But Stiles says his piece and steps aside, leaving an open path to the sleeping Connell, giving the Alpha the final say. He and Derek stare at each other for a long time, and Stiles isn’t sure what Derek sees, but eventually he walks away without a word, leaving Connell to Deaton and Argent.

With no magic to shield it, the wolfsbane is easy to sniff out, boxes of bullets and bags of powder tucked behind a nearby shrub. Deaton takes it away to burn elsewhere, so the pack won’t inhale the smoke.

Peter tends to Stiles at the house, carefully wrapping his left wrist in ice and dabbing ointment to the blisters on his right hand. Bandages cover the scrapes from the jeep crashing. Stiles quietly thanks him and goes to bed.

\- - -

Stiles sleeps.

\- - -

His body is sore and tight. Whatever reserves of energy Stiles has managed to store in the past few weeks are spent, and he is exhausted.

He sleeps through the day and doesn’t wake until nearly midnight. He needs more rest but he feels agitated, knows he needs more than sleep to feel better.

He walks through the house quietly, trying not to wake the others. It was a long week for everyone and they deserve the rest.

Stiles finally finds Derek outside, standing alone and staring into the dark. Lost in thought.

“Hey,” he whispers, stopping a few feet away. Giving Derek the space he needs. It’s obvious that the Alpha blames himself for everything that happened, which is ridiculous, but Stiles isn’t sure that Derek will ever stop taking the responsibility for every mishap, every injury, every attack. He considers it his job to protect everyone, and a failure is a failure, no matter what.

“Hey,” Derek replies, still looking ahead. “How do you feel?”

“Been better,” Stiles admits. “Been worse. You?”

Derek scoffs. “I’m not the one that looks like a crime scene.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Derek finally looks over, and softens his voice as he asks, “Really, how are you?”

“Better now that I’m back here. Connell and the wolfsbane had to be dealt with but I couldn’t get my body to calm down until we got back here.”

Derek frowns. “Letting him go was a mistake.”

“It was the right thing to do. I know you don’t understand. But Argent will handle it.”

“He handled it before, and you nearly died today, Stiles. You can’t expect me to be okay with that.”

“I’m not really okay with it either,” Stiles confesses, wanting to go closer but fighting it. “But Argent won’t screw up again. And--” He chews his lip and hesitates. “And thank you, for trusting me.”

Derek shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“And for everything else. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s still true. Waking up just now, I felt safe. You don’t know what that means to me.” Stiles thought that he would be nervous, but he’s strangely calm. Empowered. Because this moment is finally here, and he’s ready.

He steps closer, close enough to feel the heat of Derek’s skin, fights the urge to run fingers down his arm. Focuses on the words he came down here to say.

But Derek is suddenly looking at him strangely, looking around them, then back at Stiles, and there’s recognition in his eyes.

“Stiles,” he warns.

“Let me say it?” Stiles pleas softly. “I’ve wanted to say something for a long time, even dreamt it, and after everything that’s happened--”

“No.” Derek takes a step backs. Stiles hesitates, wonders just how much that one ‘no’ covers. But he follows Derek, needing to try at least. Stiles needs to be sure, needs to know that he was honest and clear.

“I know there are risks. I know that the timing is terrible.”

“Stiles, stop,” Derek orders. He doesn’t move this time, but he’s giving Stiles a desperate look.

“Look, I don’t _care_ anymore. I want you. I think that you want me, too.” Just once he wants Derek without the world ending. “I’m tired of waiting for the next awful thing to happen. So… Let’s try. Let’s have something more. Let’s see what happens.”

Derek takes another deliberate step back and holds his hand up to stop Stiles from following. “I said no.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair and scrunches his forehead as he quietly deliberates.

Something heavy settles in Stiles as time passes, and his heart twists as he realizes that Derek is rejecting him.

“I _have_ been trying,” Derek insists, mostly to himself. Stiles can barely hear him. “But it’s not easy. Being around you and keeping my distance at the same time. Trying not to give you the wrong signals.”

“You have no signals,” Stiles retorts before he can stop himself.

Derek allows a self-deprecating smile. “I did my best. Which isn’t great, I know. Everyone has made that clear. But with you--” And there it is, just a hint in his eye of something that Stiles was sure of, and it’s looks like that which confuse Stiles so much. It looks like Derek wants him, values him, but he’s saying something else entirely. “With you, I wanted to get it right. Keep you safe. Get you healthy. But anything more…” He looks unhappy. He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

This isn’t what Stiles wants. He _wants_ to go to Derek’s room, push the Alpha down on the bed and pull the covers over their heads. Ignore the world for a while.

This was his chance, Stiles realizes, and it’s done. The future he saw with Derek is gone.

But Derek is being honest. And careful, like hurting Stiles is the last thing he wants. And Stiles appreciates that, wants to reciprocate. Tells himself that he can be an adult about this, too. He’ll take Derek’s friendship and be grateful for it.

“Okay. That’s okay.” He smiles, and it isn’t that hard, actually. “Thank you for being honest.”

He turns to leave but Derek stops him. “Stiles? I _am_ sorry.”

“Don’t be. “ He waves goodnight and walks inside, feeling Derek staring at him but never looking back.

\- - -

“Would you stop poking it?”

“But it hurts!”

“Exactly! Pain is _bad_ , Isaac, stop reveling in it.”

Isaac ignores him and continues to poke his various scrapes and bruises. Deaton managed to flush most of the wolfsbane from his system and sew up the bullet hole, but his body is slow to heal. He finds the injuries kind of fascinating and wants to savor them. He won’t have lasting wounds like this again.

“Ugh, and ew.” Stiles shudders melodramatically. 

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Weird,” Stiles judges.

“Werewolf,” Isaac corrects. “Hey, do you think I can talk Derek into buying some beer? Maybe my body’s weak enough to get drunk!”

“Way to find the silver lining.”

\- - -

The next few days pass without incident. Everyone is recovering and enjoying the lull before the next big disaster. Stiles thinks of the dangerous Alpha from his dreams but distracts himself.

Isaac recuperates, slow and steady, and Stiles is more than willing to let people focus on someone else for a change. Mostly he sticks to the sidelines, helps where he can, and tends to his own injuries.

Three times he catches Derek and Peter having hushed arguments. They silence as soon as he appears. Derek always looks grumpy and uncertain. Peter looks triumphant, which makes Stiles very nervous. They don’t explain and he doesn’t ask.

\- - -

The afternoon sun feels nice. Stiles tilts his head towards it and closes his eyes, soaking in the warmth. Gravel crunches beneath their feet as he and Peter take a walk around the yard. Peter had started with his plans for landscaping but eventually silence settled between them. Stiles likes it. He’s going to miss it when he leaves tomorrow.

Home.

“I think it’s time to tell my dad.”

“…That’s great, Stiles.”

“Not now. It’ll be hard enough pretending that I let the jeep roll into a ditch. He’s gonna be pissed. But this fall, I think, when I’m back in school and things have calmed down.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “He deserves to know.”

Peter smiles his support and they keep walking.

\- - -

Deaton calls that night as Stiles is packing. He asks a few questions regarding the mystery Alpha, uses the details of Stiles’ dreams to confirm that the description matches that of a werewolf headed their way.

“His pack is massive,” Deaton says. “And vicious. Derek needs to get ready.”

Derek goes to meet with Deaton in person. When he gets back, it’s late and the only light on is in the kitchen. He pokes his head in and sees Stiles sitting at the table, staring at a pen in his hands.

Derek tries to hide his panic, doesn’t run over but walks quietly so the others don’t wake. He takes the pen from Stiles and puts it on the counter, out of his reach. Then he covers Stiles' hands with one of his own and says, soft but firm, “Stiles, no.”

Stiles pulls his hands free and sticks them in his lap. Derek’s fingers flex at the loss but he moves his hand anyway.

“Yeah,” Stiles smiles ruefully, “I know. It’s just… Things became such a mess with Connell.” He wants to squirm under Derek’s gaze but forces himself to sit still. “The idea of preventing something like that… I know that covering myself in sigils will only make things worse, but it’s not like that. I keep thinking, _just one._ You know? Draw a little something on my hand and we could know what we need to, to protect the others.”

“You can’t protect them if you’re dead.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Think it’s safe to say it isn’t going to happen.” Stiles grins and shrugs. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” Derek mutters.

And Stiles feels his heart speed up, like it always does around Derek, but he just smiles. “I should sleep. Big day tomorrow. Night.”

“Goodnight.” But Stiles is already gone. Derek stands alone in the kitchen, looking a little lost.

\- - -

Stiles says goodbye to everyone as he sees them. Isaac at breakfast, Boyd in the laundry room, Erica in the hallways. No fanfare. They’ll see each other every day.

Still, Stiles feels discontent as he looks up at the house. Peter is driving him home since the jeep is at the mechanic’s, and busies himself putting Stiles’ bag away to give the boy some space.

The house is so much better. It looks like a real home now, welcoming and comfortable. Still a lot of work to be done but they’re making progress. So are the people inside.

His pack, Stiles thinks fondly.

Derek walks up to him and follows his gaze to the house. “The siding gets installed next week.”

“Oh, god.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “By professionals. Give me a little credit.”

“Just keep Isaac away. He’s still healing. And someone should learn from my idiocy.” Stiles kicks at the gravel. “Stupid nail gun.”

Derek laughs, sudden and loud. Stiles stares in amazement, feeling like it’s Christmas. Derek should laugh more. It’s freaking awesome.

Derek coughs to hide his smile and looks away, then back at Stiles. He almost says something but doesn’t. They both stare at the house instead.

“Anyway,” Stiles finally says, “it’ll be great. And remember, I’m just a call away. I’m slightly dangerous, but it’s free labor, right?”

“Sure,” Derek humors him.

“So… I should get going.” He offers his hand and Derek shakes it. Stiles swears that Derek’s fingers linger but figures his imagination is just desperate. “Thanks again for everything.”

“Yeah. See you soon?”

“Yeah.” He walks to the car and gets in. Peter is watching Derek from the driver’s seat and scowling. Whatever’s going on between those two, Stiles wishes they would just get over it. They all have enough drama to deal with.

Stiles gives a little wave, and Isaac waves back from the living room window.

\- - -

It’s weird, being back, but so much better than he was expecting. No strange symbols, no tingling sensation, no disembodied voices. Even the nasty smell is gone. It’s just his room, like it was this winter, and he’s just Stiles once again.

He tells himself that he’ll spend the evening with his dad for some long-overdue bonding, but when they settle down on the couch, Stiles is dozing before the first commercial. He shrugs an apology, hugs his dad goodnight and heads upstairs.

Four hours later, Stiles is woken up by the phone ringing beside him. He reaches for it blindly, grumbling about needy werewolves and endless emergencies.

“Hello?”

“Stiles.” Derek. And he doesn’t sound panicked or urgent, so this is a non-emergency Derek call. Stiles urges his sleepy brain to wake up.

“Hey.” He clears his throat. “Hi. Everything okay?”

“Fine. Just wanted to see how you were settling in.” At one in the morning?

“I’m okay. A little strange, but it’s nice to be back.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.” Epic conversation. Stiles would snark, but he’s too focused on the sound of Derek breathing. He could listen to that all night. In fact, it’s already lulling him to back to sleep.

“Listen. I’ve been thinking. About what you said.”

“Alright.” Stiles says a lot of things. Derek should be more specific.

“And…”

Stiles waits. And waits.

"…I need time."

What? "Uh…"

"Are you even listening?"

"Yes. I'm just not comprehending. It's late, and I'm still catching up on sleep."

"You want me to call back tomorrow?"

His mind blanks in a pleasant way. He tries to focus. "You would do that?"

"It's just a phone call."

"It really isn't. But, yeah. If you want to, I mean. Calling is good, always, and you don't even need a reason. Or an appointment. Just call for the fun of it--"

"Stiles," he sighs, "go to sleep."

He doesn’t want to. He’s suddenly wide awake, and in all honesty, he doesn’t trust Derek to call a second time. This call seems like a miracle, and he doesn’t even know-- _Oh_. "You need time," he repeats.

"I-- Yes. Yeah." He sighs again. "Just to work on things. There's a lot you don't know."

But Stiles bets he can guess most of it. "It" being "Kate." But he doesn’t want her in this conversation, so he just says, "Yeah, okay, that's okay."

"Thanks."

"But you are calling."

"I will." And Stiles likes the way he says that, determined, all honesty and no hesitation.

"Good. And, hey, if you decide that calling isn't enough and you happen to come by, that would be even better."

He can practically _hear_ Derek smile. "I'll think about it," he promises, and hangs up.

\- - -

Stiles’ last vision is that night, fed by the magic he removed from Connell. It’s brief and vague, not enough energy left to fully form it.

_He doesn’t see anything, he only senses his surroundings. A ticking clock, barely-there snoring, warm blanket, empty bed, white snow and cold frost, wind blowing. Comfort. Warmth. Safety._

_Happiness. Stiles is happy…_

\- - -

Stiles is at his computer when a familiar breeze hitting his neck tells him that his window is open. He has to bite back a dopey grin as he spins in his chair to see Derek standing next to the bed.

“Hey,” he smiles.

“Hey.” And Derek smiles back. _Derek smiling_. Best start to the day, ever. But Derek looks a little nervous, too, and once Stiles gets past the thrill of realizing that those nerves are because of _him_ , he acknowledges that this can’t be an easy conversation for Derek, and resolves to make it brief.

“So. Last night. Our talk.” Well done, Stilinski. Probably should’ve planned ahead for this talk.

“Yeah.” Derek ducks his head and rubs his neck, but he doesn’t break eye contact. His eyes are soft. “ _Yeah_.” Like he’s saying yes to everything, anything.

Christ, the things that voice does to him. Stiles clears his throat. “So, I’ve been thinking. About giving it time. And I think you’re right. Life’s been crazy for everyone. Taking time… would be smart.” He stands and steps close. Loves how Derek doesn’t back away. “I want to get this right.”

“Me, too.” And Stiles _swears_ there’s some blushing going on. Focusing is suddenly much harder.

“So…” Stiles had a point. What was his point. Oh, time. What Derek asked for. And Stiles is going to give it. After everything Derek has done for him, he wants to give something in return. He wants to the person waiting at the finish line.

“So,” Stiles tries again.  “What I wanted to say, is that waiting is okay. I’m here for you. As your friend. So take the time you need to do what you need to do. And whatever comes up, we will all handle it together.” He steps closer, inches from Derek. “And when you’re ready for something more, I’ll be waiting.”

Derek is staring at Stiles’ lips and his breathing is suddenly heavy. He licks his lips and nods, drags his eyes up to Stiles’ face. “Thank you,” he manages. “I want-- I want to organize things. With the pack. Get us settled. Handle this new Alpha.” He winces. “And… some other issues.”

Kate, fucking Kate, Stiles didn’t think he could hate someone that’s already dead, but apparently he can.

“But I _do_ want--” Derek’s phone rings and he scowls at his pocket as he fishes it out. “Sorry. I can’t ignore it, it could be important.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles reassures him, stepping back.

Derek looks at the caller id and his scowl deepens. “Peter. He knows I called you last night. He’s been impossible.”

They’ve been arguing about _him_ , Stiles realizes. Peter playing matchmaker. Sounds right.

“Listen, I need to shower anyway. Go. We can talk later.”

Derek seems unsure. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. We both know where we stand--” And the dopey grin is back, because Derek freaking Hale _wants him_. “--and that’s enough for now.” His fingers are itching to grab that leather jacket but he restrains himself. Derek smiles, even wider than before, and walks to the window.

Screw it.

“Derek?” He turns back around and Stiles rushes forward, grasping warm skin, stubble under his fingertips, and brushes the lightest of kisses across Derek’s lips. Derek grabs at him, fistfuls of shirt, and pulls him close, tilting his head and kissing back, quick and hard and urgent.

Stiles’ head is spinning and he knows that it’s probably too fast and damn it--

He pulls away, leaving Derek with reddened lips and a dazed look. Stiles is sure he looks the same.

“Go. Before I change my mind. And call me, okay?”

Derek nods, still staring, and suddenly grins. He looks triumphant.

　

**JANUARY**

The wind is still blowing outside. Stiles slowly wakes, feeling lazy and satiated, stretches, and savors the pleasant ache of his muscles. It’s probably freezing outside but inside it’s nice and warm. He slides further under the covers and lets his foot wander over. Not warm. Derek must’ve gone a while ago.

Stiles stares at the ceiling and takes in the sounds of the house through the bedroom door left slightly ajar. He can hear Peter snoring down the hall, and the ticking of the grandfather clock near the stairs, the one they pulled out of storage just last week.

Content, he smiles drowsily and slowly sits up. Stretches some more. Thinks of last night and grins. Best New Year’s Eve ever. Christmas had been nice, but scattered, with everyone spending time with various families. New Year’s had been theirs, as a pack. And kissing Derek at midnight was something he planned to repeat for a long, long time.

Derek. Stiles had been comfortable before but now he wants more. He gets out of bed and stares out the window at the snow-covered forest. Snowstorms are rare in this area and seeing a wintery world from the Hale house is magnificent. He relishes the view and idly traces the frost on the window with his finger, wishing Derek was here to share it with. But his boyfriend’s energy seems boundless these days. He probably went for a run in the fresh snow.

Stiles shivers at the thought and dives back under the covers, happy to wait somewhere warm.

A little while later, he’s beginning to doze off again when the front door closes and footsteps hurry up the stairs and through the hallway. He doesn’t even have time to sit up before Derek appears, rosy cheeked and grinning.

Derek rushes onto the bed, tosses the blanket aside, and crawls on top of Stiles, immediately ducking down to kiss him. Quick, enthusiastic pecks quickly turn into long, slow kisses full of intent. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and pulls down until Derek is flush against him, head to toe, and Derek chuckles against Stiles’ mouth.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Stiles manages between kisses. “Happy New Year.”

“Mmm.” Stiles wraps his fingers in Derek’s hair and quivers pleasantly at the contrast of cold, snow-covered hair and hot, pliant skin. He scrapes gently at Derek’s scalp and Derek moans in appreciation.

“We should get up.” Derek’s moan is less appreciative. “Peter will wake up soon. He promised breakfast.”

“We’re staying in bed,” Derek decides, distracted by Stiles’ collarbone.

“Yeah? For how--” His breath hitches. “How long?”

“All morning.” Derek is sucking along his jaw, wet and hard, getting greedy. “Probably all day.”

Stiles arches as Derek reaches his ear, scratches down Derek’s back. “They’ll notice.”

“Don’t care,” Derek growls, hands slipping under Stiles’ shirt. Stiles trembles. “Really don’t care.”

Stiles laughs, suddenly moans at a slip of Derek’s hand, and decides that he can be just as distracting. He tilts his head and nuzzles Derek’s neck, scraping with his teeth and retracing with his tongue. Derek shivers, suddenly pulls back so that he can look into Stiles’ eyes before leaning down and taking his mouth with his own. He’s energized from the run, loose and pliant from his night with Stiles, and has no intention of leaving the bedroom.

“Love you,” he mumbles, rubbing his nose along Stiles’ cheek. “So much.”

“Love you too,” Stiles beams, heart pounding, before Derek’s kisses demand his attention again. They don’t say anything else for a long time.


End file.
